


The Blue We  Breathe

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Category: Legacy of Kain
Genre: Bestiality, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bruises, Control Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light BDSM, M/M, Other, Size Kink, Threats, Underage Sex, Vampire Sex, Wing Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:36:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kain finds himself deposited thirty years too early in history, and must deal with the consequences.  Warnings for underage abuse.</p><p>-----</p><p>“More?” Kain rumbled, when the shuddering Ancient had calmed somewhat. Panting, Janos clutched at the pale vampire’s back… and after a moment, nodded mutely.</p><p>Even devoid of fangs, Kain’s smile was a sharp-edged and predatory thing. “You know how to ask me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\---  
Chapter 1: the blue we breathe  
\---

But this blue I'm compelled to glorify—  
it's not robin's egg, navy, or indigo;  
it's a shade that should be named "devastation blue,"

\---

 

The tavern wasn't big enough for stables, but had its own whore.

And in a tiny trade town like this, that was saying something.

Wooden buildings, their planks rough-hewn and unfinished, clung close alongside a single mud-choked, deeply rutted street. The place had no fortifications. Filthy animals and filthier children wandered the shadowed alleys -- proof enough that the humans in this place, in this era, had no fear of the creatures that stalked the night in less settled times.

Kain lifted his head, nostrils flared with distaste. His sense of smell seemed to grow only more acute as the ages passed, but at times like this, that dark gift seemed more a curse than a blessing. The streets were open sewers -- the dim drizzling rain only muted the stench. Tepid, dirty water dripped from the hem of his thick cloak.

Nowhere could Kain find evidence of Sarafan lordship, though that didn't mean much, in a place as squalid as this. There was little here to interest the defenders of the realm. Eventually, the clouds would surely clear to reveal the stars that could pinpoint the exact year, but until then....

Kain stepped nimbly aside to avoid being splashed by a kicking mule. Under better weather conditions, he would not have hesitated to simply fly to a larger town, someplace that might hear news of the greater Nosgoth more frequently.

Flying in the rain, however, was a misery that overshadowed even spending the night among humans.

Crude music was beginning to drift from the ramshackle tavern, punctuated with drunken laughter. With a great deal of luck, the place might be hosting a traveling minstrel, someone who could tell Kain in exactly what era he had landed. Kain was familiar with the history of Nosgoth, of course -- there was probably no one who understood the land as he did -- yet tales of this era, some five hundred years before Kain's own birth, were largely myth or legend even to him. No reliable historical texts even existed.

Oh, Kain knew that he'd emerged from the chronoplast in roughly the correct era. His research told him that much. But did he find himself here at the height of Sarafan rule, while his sons still drew breath? Kain could be a year or a month too late, or a hundred years too early, for all he knew.

A drunken ore miner staggered from the tavern as Kain approached. The human began relieving itself in the street. Kain's lip curled in disgust. No matter the age, one could always expect humans to behave like the animals they were. Even the noble classes, such as they were, were hardly better mannered than this sordid creature.

Steeling himself against the reek of sweating human, Kain pushed open the tavern doors, shaking back the hood of his cloak. Rain did not truly harm him, but neither was its touch a pleasure.

Wrapped in beguilement, Kain's features seemed perfectly human, and so his entrance garnered little attention from most of the half-drunken men. One rotund little human however, alert to the signs of wealth and nobility, pushed through the crowd towards him. The innkeeper, Kain assumed. The little creature bowed as deeply as its fat belly allowed, abasing itself, as was proper. Less reverently, the man kept up a steady stream of words, offering Kain the finest seat in the inn, a comforting drink, the whore, a warm peg near the fire for his cloak....

"Your minstrel," Kain said, interrupting the innkeeper's inane babble. "From whence does he come?" The player in question had climbed on a table, presumably finding that a better vantage from which to ill-treat the lute he carried. The men around him laughed and shouted, apparently finding the discordant tunes highly entertaining. They squabbled over ale and tattered playing cards. The tavern whore -- a ragged, frail thing -- writhed half-heartedly on one reveler's lap.

"Him?" said the innkeeper, twisting around to look, as if there could be two such musically disinclined humans in the room. "He be no mistral, Lord. Just a local boy. But if the Lord will wait, a better is due into town any hour. An' he's surely worth waiting for! In the meantime, we has a fine stew, fit even for your lordship, and bread, the very best in Nosgoth, fresh from the ovens, it are! An'...."

Kain swallowed his aversion and allowed the innkeeper to lead him to a table near the fire. Bowing and scraping, the creature chattered away, listing the goods and more... personal services offered by the tavern, punctuated with fawning flattery. At last, Kain cut the human off. "Red wine," he said, "mulled, if you have it."

He waited until the innkeeper backed away, bowing, before he pulled out the rough wooden chair and sat slowly. Damn and damn again. If this were any other era, Kain could have, with great relish, laid waste to the entire village. He could have flown to the Sarafan stronghold and seen for himself what was transpiring. But history disliked tampering. A certain... pressure weighed on Kain, the knowledge that he was the grain of sand within the oyster's shell. One false move, one disruption of a vital event or even life, and Kain might very easily find his presence rejected by the timestream.

Kain was in this age for one purpose, and one alone. He would witness Raziel slay his brethren. And in that moment, the fate of all the world would be decided.

If this minstrel could at least pinpoint the exact date, then Kain might....

A drunken roar was taken up by the crowd of gambling men, and the tavern's whore was shoved to the floor, where it crawled between another man's spread thighs. Tired, stringy women lofted trays of steins overhead to weave through the crowd, unconcerned by the uproar. The serving wenches in places such as this could be bought for the price of a few drinks. But they weren't generally available till after closing, and innkeepers strongly frowned on customers that permanently injured the girls.

Thus, the tavern whores. The lives of orphans or runaway slaves were nasty and brutish, no matter the era or the town. "Employed" as tavern whores, their existences were invariably short as well. The thin, dirty human, its face buried in an unwashed ore miner's open breeches, looked to be near its end. Even in the sweaty heat of so many humans crushed in so small a space, the whore shivered.

An oddly fine goblet was placed before Kain, and he turned his attention to the innkeeper, who also trembled, though for a far different cause. Kain's nostrils delicately flared, catching the rancid bite of fear-sweat. Beneath the rough notes of liquor and flavoring herbs, the wine smelled of bitter almonds.

Kain's lips twitched, nearly a smile. Few toxins could harm a vampire, and fewer still could harm one as ancient as Kain. He withdrew a small silver coin -- payment for the drink ten times over, even were it not poisoned -- and rubbed it hard between two fingers before placing it on the table in front of the innkeep.

The man's thick fingers reached eagerly for the coin. Kain laid a manicured nail on the metal, forcing the human to glance up. One look, and the human's rotted little mind was caught, hooked like a worm upon Kain's barbed will. Kain's mouth twisted faintly -- a smile or a snarl. "Watch for the minstrel. Bring him to me when he arrives," he said calmly, "and there will be another of these for you."

The human nodded in frantic agreement, its rolls of jaw-fat flopping. To any onlooker, the innkeeper appeared to have stuck a simple bargain. But a compulsion had been planted in the human's mind, an inescapable command. No matter how it tried, no matter how it struggled, the human would not be able to avoid following Kain's directive.

Kain withdrew his hand and the silver coin was snatched up. The innkeeper studied the disk briefly and then bit down on the rim. The silver, of course, was real enough. But Kain's touch had effaced the impression stamped on the coin -- the currency of Kain's empire was inevitably marked with a lieutenant's profile.

The human backed away, bowing, its piggishly crafty eyes alight with murderous avarice. Kain waited until the human retreated to the bar before palming the goblet of spiced wine. The warmth of the liquid was enjoyable, though a cautious sip confirmed that the flavor was not. A pity, for Kain occasionally enjoyed human-made liquors, even if his body tolerated them only in small quantities.

If innkeepers made a habit of poisoning travelers -- Kain couldn't imagine it was the fat man's first such attempt -- it surely meant that Sarafan law and order currently waned. Perhaps Kain found himself inserted too late in history, in a time when the Sarafan scrambled to maintain control after the deaths of their living saints.

Or perhaps Kain was early -- the Sarafan hadn't yet extended their control to this hamlet. Kain shook his head in disgust, setting the goblet back down. Human history was simply so... so very transitory. An empire in its glory one decade could be crumbling the next. Spheres of power waxed and waned; little border towns like this one were lawless one year and taxed to extinction the next. There was no stability under human rule -- there never could be.

This stinking town was no place for him. There was nothing to be found here worth this aggravation. He would find someplace sheltered in the forest and move out once the rain cleared. Kain laid his palms on the table and stood.

His knees nearly buckled.

Kain closed his eyes against sudden nausea, against encompassing weakness. He could hear -- could *smell* -- the innkeeper sidle closer. The wine... but no, no chemical could... but what if...

Crippling vertigo rose in pulses. Reality bowed, distorted, warping into patterns as wholly familiar and as unnatural as the edge of a coin, flashing as it spun in the sun. Something was about to go history-shatteringly wrong.

Nascent paradox.

Oblivious humans shouted, crude furniture cracking loudly as a drunken fistfight broke out. Wenches shrieked, fleeing for the kitchens. Some creature whimpered as it was kicked aside. Baked clay plates shattered on the floor.

And the paradox ended. Just like that, in less than a second, without Kain's intervention, just... over.

A slender body thumped onto Kain's table, hardly rattling his wineglass. Teeth bared in a snarl, nails gouging furrows in the table's soft wood, Kain opened his eyes...

...into blue. Not bird's-egg blue, not navy, nor indigo. Rather, devastation blue, glory-blue, lacerative, eyes of a shade more familiar to him than any other color in the whole of Nosgoth.

The whore's name was on his lips before he knew it.

"Rahab...."

This tiny human, this... this tavern whore... but the bones of the face were right, and the scent... was too hard to distinguish under the stink of sweat and semen and the layered foulness of humanity. Panic twisted its features. But the eyes....

Kain felt as if he were moving very slowly. There was a burly human nearby, its arm upraised, broken bottle in hand. Kain reached out and, quite without thinking, caught the downward blow.

And snapped the human's arm. In, if Kain was any judge of injury, and he _was_ , approximately six places.

Time returned with the shrill and unlovely sound of a human in true agony. The ore miner staggered back, its dirty mouth agape, clenching its shattered forearm. The barroom brawl ground to a halt.

"Your best room," Kain growled, and realized only distantly that the sound from his throat wasn't even human. "Where is it?" The wretch -- Rahab -- on his table tried to sit up, and Kain laid a long-nailed hand across the center of its chest to hold it in place. The tiny heart fluttered under his hand like a trapped sparrow. Too hard, he realized as the whore thumped back down on the wood. Too hard, and Kain could barely touch healthy humans without breaking them. And the stench....

The piggish little innkeeper started from its daze. "Oh it's... just up the stairs, Lord. There's nobody in...."

Kain reached out and jerked the innkeeper to him, the use of telekinesis instinctual and very easy. He tore his gaze from the... the whore -- the blue -- and narrowed his eyes at the innkeep. "Send up food. And a bath," he snarled. "And if you try to poison me again, I will gut you myself."

He dropped the squirming innkeeper and removed his hand with distaste from the ragged whore's -- Rahab's -- thin chest. "Get up," he commanded the human. It shivered as it looked back, terror writ plain on its starved face. He'd never seen those eyes hold such blank and unthinking fear, such human weakness. Rahab had faced down Kain's firstborn with arrogance and authority; he expected no less from any of his sons. "Get up now!"

The tiny human scrambled upright, eyes darting as if it intended to run. The room had grown silent, save for faint whispers -- magician and warlock. The whore hung its head and started slowly for the stairs.

"Move!" Kain roared, and the whore tripped over its own feet, scrabbling up the rickety wooden staircase. Kain caught the eyes of the innkeeper, who still clasped its flabby throat. "And see that I am not otherwise disturbed," he growled. The innkeep nodded frantically, making choking sounds Kain took for agreement.

Kain turned and followed the little human, making sure it never left his sight.

 

\---

 

The hallway was short; only three rough-hewn doors lead off from it. The creature -- Rahab -- darted to the door at the end and shuffled nervously, touching the latch and then jerking his hand back. He shuddered and looked to Kain, meeting his eyes only for a moment and then casting them back down, somewhere in the direction of Kain's knees.

"Enter," Kain commanded, and could not keep the harshness from his voice.

The little human struggled with the door and pulled it open, darting through the moment there was space enough. Kain followed, pushing the lightweight wood open on creaking leather hinges. The room was very small, he saw, stepping inside. There was a single slit-like window, and the space contained nothing but a single bed, covered by sheets Kain could never have brought himself to touch, and a splintered table, no chairs.

"Sit down," he growled at the whore, and the little human scrambled to the bed where it perched, shaking. Kain pushed the door closed behind him, very carefully, to avoid ripping the planks from their moorings. He closed his eyes briefly. If his memories hadn't changed, that meant... that meant what? That Rahab would survive? Surely not in the state it -- he -- was in. What did the flow of time demand of Kain?

He opened his eyes and the whore yet sat there, hands fisted in the blanket. Kain folded his arms across his chest. "What is your name?" he demanded. Perhaps Kain was mistaken, perhaps....

The human choked on its lungful of air, its voice breathy and small. "I... if it pleases your Lordship, I can be anyone you...."

"What is _your name,_ boy?"

"Rahab," gasped the human, tears welling in the perfect, sapphire blue of its eyes.

...and memory came to him, tangible and real. Blood and power filled the corpse as Kain poured in his soul, his strength, flushing through rot and decay. Fluids pulsed once more through dust-dry paths -- Turel had drooled when he'd risen; Rahab shed tears when he'd greeted the night.

The small sounds of the human nearly escaped his notice -- the soft crinkle of the straw-stuffed mattress, the pad of bare feet on the rough-hewn planks. But he heard the thump as the human went to his knees before Kain, and he looked down... to find the whore reaching for his leather breeches.

"I said _sit down,_ " Kain snarled, and the little human jerked back, nearly falling over, tears spilling down its dirt-smeared cheeks. With a muffled whine, the creature scrambled for the bed. The human's ankles were tiny -- just tendon, thin bones, raw skin.

A brief, hesitant knock came at the door.

Kain turned and jerked it open, the metal of the latch deforming in his hand. A tavern wench stood just on the other side. It carried a tray with hot bread, a covered bowl, an empty glass, and a somewhat dusty bottle of wine. Its eyes flicked to something behind Kain. "Your dinner, Lord." It drew a trembling breath. "Please... please don't hurt him," the human whispered.

Kain lifted the tray from the female's hands and shut the door in its face.

When he turned around, he found that the whore had divested itself of the rags that passed for its trousers. Back arched, naked and shivering, the creature displayed itself on hands and knees in the center of the narrow bed.

Kain's lip curled.

He'd rarely ever killed humans this small; the very suggestion that Kain would want to fuck one was unutterably insulting. A beast of the woods would be cleaner than this louse-infested little human. The fact that the whore -- Rahab -- didn't know any better was hardly a defense; it never had been in Kain's empire.

What strength, what possibility, what determination, what chance could there be in this wretched thing? Despite the eons Kain had lived, despite his long view of the world and clear sight, he could ultimately see little of what would be in this... this waif. There was no honor in it, nor the keen intellect and knowledge hunger of his son -- superlative assassin and scholar both. No similarity at all, except... for the eyes. And with grudging admittance, the fact the whore was still alive.

Despite the poor lighting and the whore's shivering, Kain could make out any number of scars and bruises. And although Kain cared little if the humans of this town saw fit to abuse their captives, he was a little confounded that the whore had lived through a tenth so much damage, as thin as it was. The number and variety of scars seemed beyond reason on so small a body -- but then Kain had never thought to closely examine a tavern whore before, and had no objects of comparison save memories of the empire's human slaves and battle-grizzled veterans.

The whore should be dead, he realized. It should have longed for the soft embrace of death, at the very least. Instead it knelt there, offering the only thing it knew to offer, trying to survive in the only way it could. The whore clung to its filthy life with broken, blackened fingernails -- it fought to survive, and thus, it lived. It was beyond the pale, beyond the blue; there was something of his son there.

Kain sighed and set the tray down on the room's sole table. The small, roughly-formed piece of furniture had been bolted to the floor, he found, and he ripped it from its anchorage with the squeal and snap of twisting metal. He set the entire table beside the bed. "Dress yourself, then sit," he said, "and do not... disrobe again."

The whore started in terror and scrambled to huddle on the corner of the bed as Kain moved the table, and it occurred to him that a mortal should not, perhaps, have been able to lift it so easily. It had been a very long time since Kain had concerned himself with what humans could and could not do. Evidently, that would quickly have to change. How was Kain to find a place to leave the boy? He could not simply deliver the child to the Sarafan and expect them to rear him properly, not when the boy was so clearly of slave stock. And even if some chapel or outpost did take the wretch, what were the chances of Rahab becoming one of that order's living saints in just a few decades? Somehow, Kain's very presence had disrupted a vital chain of events, and now... well. Now history was in very serious danger of not repeating itself at all.

Ignoring the whore for the moment, Kain gingerly dipped one shaped and polished nail into the thick stew. He sniffed carefully, then licked the fluid off. His palate registered the flavors as ashy and unpleasant -- very few human foods appealed to him on any level anymore -- but not inherently injurious. He set the bowl near the bed, and took up the dense brown bread, examining it. It did not seem to be poisoned either, but -- how much was safe to feed a starving human? In the case of a fledgling, it was vital to get as much fluid into them as quickly as possible. But humans, like dogs, were capable of eating themselves sick, and Kain had no wish to have the stink of this little room enhanced, nor to subject the whore's body to the potentially fatal stress of vomiting. He tore off a talon-sized fragment of the loaf and laid it beside the bowl.

The little whore had crawled back into its rags, though it remained huddled in the corner, eyes fixed not on the food just out of arms' reach, but on Kain. "Eat," Kain said, when the mortal made no move, "and do so slowly." Without a utensil, the whore should be forced to eat fairly deliberately, but Kain ordered it in any case.

Gradually, the whore uncoiled, blue, blue eyes fixed upon Kain, watching for the slightest movement that would indicate the food was to be withdrawn. When Kain did nothing, Rahab at last reached for the earthenware bowl. His thin arms trembled as he brought it to his lips. The boy drank a few mouthfuls of the rich liquid, eyes still wide with fear. Then, shivering, the whore restrained himself, and set the bowl back to the table. He pulled off a small bite of bread carefully, with dirty fingers, and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

The creature sat for a moment, as if thinking. Then the boy pushed the bowl towards Kain. "It's not poisoned," he asserted, voice little above a whisper.

Kain raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. "I did not ask if it was. Eat." Either this innkeeper made a very regular habit of poisoning travelers indeed, or the boy had been aware of the attempt on Kain's life, despite the distraction of servicing gambling humans at the time. Rahab had always been the most observant, the most aware of his surroundings, of all Kain's get. His clan had more than its share of superb spies and assassins. It pleased Kain to imagine that Rahab might possess some shadow of that ability even as a mortal.

The whore, for its part, froze for a bare instant, eyes widening with realization of for whom the meal was intended. The boy wasted no time -- as if fearing that the food would vanish, he tore a crust from the bread and used it to scoop up chunks of hot meat, shoveling them into its mouth.

Kain's fist struck the center of the table -- barely a tap, though it rattled the earthenware and made the wooden table creak alarmingly. "You will obey me precisely, boy, if you wish to survive this night." Kain would not kill him, of course -- but if Rahab choked, there might be little Kain could do. First aid upon humans was not exactly a skill he had practiced of late.

And that... would have to be corrected as well. By all the bloody hells. There had to be some way to return history to its proper track -- some place safe enough, in all of Nosgoth, to leave the boy. Someplace where Rahab could grow fit and capable enough to cross blades with Kain's wayward firstborn, if only for a few minutes. Kain watched the little whore flinch, eyes darting from the food to Kain and back again. "Yes, your lordship," Rahab whispered, nodding quickly and reaching tentatively for the bowl again. This time, he ate with more deliberation.

"Sire --" Kain corrected absently, leaving the boy to his meal. He folded his arms and paced to the tiny window, where the air was at least marginally fresher, ignoring the graceless sounds of chewing and swallowing. Rahab would become his son in the distant future, and would make a strong Sarafan before that, but now? "-- you will call me Sire," Kain said, watching the dim fall of drizzling rain.

 

\---  
\---

 

It took neigh half an hour for the bath to be delivered. A knock came at the door, and after Kain answered, a manservant rolled in the bottom half of a large barrel. Wenches filed in, each bearing buckets of steaming water. The barrel was quickly filled -- Kain stood betwixt Rahab and the servants until the humans at last retreated.

Rahab had largely ignored the activity, too focused on sopping up the last of the stew. When the bread ran out, the whore glanced between the remainder of the loaf and Kain, and then set to scooping from the bowl with two dirty fingers. "Enough, boy -- leave it. Come here," Kain ordered, as if to a mongrel dog. Best keep to simple commands, until he could determine how much a human child this young could properly understand.

There was a short silence from the edge of the bed, then the soft swish of sackcloth against fabric as the wretch slid to his feet. Cringing and cautious, Rahab crept near.

There was, quite possibly, no worse manner in which to approach a vampire -- particularly Kain himself. A fighting chance might be extended to the proud, the defiant. The quiet and respectful lived out their lives as slaves. The weak or pitiable evoked nothing more than a hunting response, and could expect no mercy save, occasionally, that of a quick death.

Kain closed his eyes, just for a moment, and found that neither the fear nor the filth he could smell made control any simpler. On the other hand, the sight of the little human also made it no easier a task to contain the reflexive backhand that would have shattered the wretch's spine. Kain could only hope the human could attend to cleaning himself without assistance -- even in this weaker physical form, Kain had to exercise great restraint when touching humans, simply to avoid damaging them. And in his current mood... "Bathe," Kain said flatly, when the boy made no move.

Rahab looked up, and Kain glanced down into that startling color once more -- the blue of a perfect summer sky, at the zenith of the heavens. Devastation blue. And terrified. Kain turned his gaze away, unwilling to look for long upon such a fragile, mortal expression on a face that should have been fierce and imperiously intelligent. Kain snorted softly, would have stepped back, save that there was no place to go in the tiny room save through the table, and Kain was fairly certain humans did not often splinter furniture with an incautious shove. "Do as you are ordered."

Perhaps such blatant fear had served to keep the mortal alive, but surely Rahab could not be afraid of the water. A hearty irony that would be, indeed. But Rahab backed away and after a few moments climbed into the barrel willingly enough, albeit he did so whilst still clothed, and then sat, forlornly small in the middling-warm water, seeming very much at a loss. The brownish lump of soap -- or what passed for it in this era -- still lay in its dish on the floor. It was entirely possible that the boy might not even know, or remember, what it was for. Which was a... problem. It had been literal eons since Kain had used it himself -- surfactants were typically poor cleansers in the distilled alcohol vampires used to bathe, -- and how in the world was he even going to...

"Lord?" a voice called faintly through the wooden door, accompanied by a hesitant knock. Were Kain merely human, he might not have heard either sound, faint as they were. Frankly thankful for the interruption, Kain stalked to the flimsy portal and wrenched it open, the leather hinges protesting.

Another tavern wench stood, wide-eyed and trembling a little, several scraps of absorbent fabric heaped in her arms. "They told me... I brought the... um. Your Lordship," she managed, hesitantly extending the armload of... towels, Kain supposed.

"Enter." Kain stepped to the side, as much as possible in the tiny room. "You will assist the boy in cleaning himself." There, problem solved.

The wench stunk of terror, the scent heightening by the moment as she bit at her lip and moved to tug off Rahab's clothing with careful hands. The fear was distracting, bothersome for its allure, and Kain paced back to the window when it appeared that the tavern wench knew what she was doing.

From the snatches Kain could catch of the quiet conversation in the tavern below, it seemed that rumors as to Kain's intent and powers were spreading rapidly. This could be of some use -- fearful humans were typically both more predictable and more tractable -- but would limit the time Kain could keep Rahab here. If the Sarafan, or whatever organization passed for law in this place, hadn't been summoned already, they would be soon enough.

And he dared not risk that the humans would, in their dread, take up arms against Kain. There was no danger to Kain himself, of course, but the boy was a different matter. One stray strike would be all it would take to...

When Kain made no motion, the tavern wench and the boy began to speak quietly, presuming their exchange masked by the sloshing water. The boy was crying very softly, fearfully, as he related the events of the past hour. Strange that the whore might have been less frightened if Kain had used him -- at least the boy would then have then known what to expect. In retrospect, Kain realized that had he a more kindly countenance, the woman might have come to the conclusion that he was feeding and bathing the child out of some manner of compassion. But kindness was not exactly a frequent grace upon Kain's features, whether he wore a human form or no. So, again in retrospect, it should have been obvious that she would put together the rumors she'd heard about the rituals of warlocks -- sacrifices to demons, cannibalism, necromancy and the like -- and the child's fear, and make some very dire inferences.

But Kain would never, could never, have imagined that in a place like this, under circumstances such as these, the wench's human pity would lead her to make such a noble, altruistic, self-sacrificing gesture.

The wench attempted to drown Rahab.

Without a word, the scent of her terror peaking, she shoved the boy's head under the soapy water. And there were a few moments, before the boy's heart rate sped, before he began to thrash, in which Kain was not concerned; assumed that the wench was merely rinsing the boy. It wasn't until Kain turned and found the wench glaring up at him in defiant fear, holding Rahab underwater, that he realized exactly what was happening.

He had the woman's neck snapped between his fingers in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He hauled her back from the tub in one fist, jerking the twitching body upright, and plunged his other hand into the water, heedless of the blistering burn. He seized Rahab's upper arm, dragged him out. The crack of Rahab's thin humerus snapping was as hollow and dull to Kain's senses as the realization of his error. The boy struggled weakly, gasping for air, Kain's grip around his broken arm doubtless agonizing. But he didn't start screaming... until he saw what dangled lifelessly from Kain's other hand.

Even with a half-drowned, injured, wailing whore in one blistering and smoking hand, a dead wench in the other, Kain still heard a pair of humans approach the door to the small room, could sense the mortals even before one began pounding on the door.

"Your Lordship? The minstrel is here, an' I brought him, 'jist as you says. Should I..." The innkeeper was, of course, mindlessly insistent. "By the nine, what is going on in there?" interjected another voice, sounding shocked.

Damnation.

\---

"Wait outside," snarled Kain, loudly enough to be heard through the door and the screaming. He tossed the tavern wench's body aside with ease that bespoke his strength. It struck the bedframe with a crack, limp as a ragdoll, tumbling down to the floor where it might, with luck, be out of the view of someone standing in the doorway.

Predictably, the boy's crying intensified. Oh, for the love of the Pillars... "Silence, wretch," Kain hissed more softly as he gathered Rahab up around the waist with great care, releasing his broken arm, "or I will slay you here and now." It was not in Kain's nature to make empty threats, and this one was as hollow as they came. But the boy had shown a great deal of will to remain among the living, and Kain was counting on that now.

It worked. In a manner of speaking. The wails faded to soft sobbing as Kain set Rahab's small body cautiously on the straw-stuffed mattress. Black bruises were already forming on the boy's arm, around the break. Between the bed 'linens' and the rags that were evidently meant to serve as towels, it was difficult to say which was the cleaner. Kain twisted the fabric of space to open one of his dimensional pockets, reached out, and seized the first piece of cloth that came to hand, producing a cape of fine, deep red wool as if from thin air. He draped it around the boy's shaking shoulders. The cape was meant to adorn a vampire lord nearly seven feet tall; its folds all but swallowed the little human.

"Keep quiet," Kain warned, before he stalked to the door. The corpulent innkeep was still in the hallway, arguing with the minstrel, trying to persuade the man to stay. Kain jerked the door open, keeping his still-blistered right hand hidden behind it.

"Oh, your Lordship!" the inkeeper exclaimed. "I were just..."

"Your coin," said Kain, fingers dipping into the pouch at his belt. He handed the small piece of silver over, dropping it into the man's plump hand. "Now leave."

Rahab was still snuffling softly. The innkeep's piggish eyes narrowed craftily as he craned his neck, trying to look beyond Kain. "Your lordship, I's afraid there will be an extra charge, if ye kills the..."

Kain mulled over the option of rending the sordid innkeep into scraps of meat. The problem therein lay in the fact that Kain had no way to know what the timestream would make of the act. This was not, after all, an era in which Kain was destined to be. If he destroyed or disrupted a vital event or life, would he be expelled by the timestream? Cast out of this era? Until he found someplace safe to leave Rahab, Kain could not permit that to happen. It was luck alone that the tavern wench, whom he'd killed, was of no importance in the skein of history. "Get out," Kain snarled, reinforcing the order with a pulse of finely-woven power. The innkeeper, bowing and scraping, backed away clutching his coin, and turned to totter down the stairs. Kain turned his attention to the bard. "You, however... will remain."

"Now, wait just a minu..." the minstrel was a relatively small man, fairly slender. He wore a long, belted tunic and trousers in well-worn, graying blue, damp with the rain. By his dress, Kain knew him a minor country bard, rather than a player favored by any particular court. Kain locked gazes with the human, and the mortal's voice trailed off, his outraged face going blank, eyes unblinking and unfocused. With a flicker of Kain's will, the bard stepped into the room and thence began to move his clothing, movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Rahab huddled down in the folds of the warm, soft woolen cloak, gathering one corner a little closer, his eyes wide and his left arm carefully limp. There was a certain dull acceptance in his eyes, as if he knew full well what the minstrel meant to do.

Kain ignored the boy while he inspected the minstrel's discarded tunic. As repugnant as Kain found the idea of playing the role of a common highwayman, it would be, quite simply, a dry day in the Lake of the Dead before he put Rahab back into the filthy, stinking, louse-infested rags the boy had been wearing. The minstrel's clothing was... tolerable, at least, smelling more of horse than of man. It would have to do. Kain ripped a long strip of fabric from the hem of the shirt, and turned to Rahab while the minstrel continued to disrobe. "Can you move your left arm?" Kain demanded. The pattern of bruising and the fact that the broken limb was not deformed suggested a greenstick fracture, or partial break. At the boy's faint nod, he carefully settled the tunic over Rahab's head.

The garment was meant for a man of relatively small build; still, it swamped Rahab. After a few moments, the boy tentatively slipped first his right, then, haltingly and painfully, his left arm into the sleeves. The cuffs extended some inches beyond the tips of his fingers.

Unwilling to chance resetting the broken bone - not certain that it needed resetting at all - Kain took up his long strip of fabric and began wrapping Rahab's arm, over the fabric of the sleeve, paying close and careful attention to the tightness of the binding. Another length of fabric ripped from the edge of Kain's cape served as a serviceable sling, tied just so. It was, frankly, the best Kain could do, under the circumstances. He was far better at taking humans apart than putting them back together.

Kain stepped back, considering the boy. Rahab sat confused and shivering, looking like nothing so much as a maimed and waifish scarecrow in too-large clothing. His wide-eyed gaze darted, from time to time, to the scrap of fabric just visible on the floor at the foot of the bed - a corner of the tavern wench's apron. If the boy would otherwise have protested the order to don another man's clothing, that sight kept him quiet. Rahab was presently trapped in a very small room with a cooling corpse, a naked minstrel, and Kain - he likely had more pressing concerns than the state of his dress.

There was, alas, no point in requiring Rahab to wear the minstrel's soft boots, for they were far too big, and the child seemed unaccustomed to wearing shoes in any case. The rain outside was beginning to ease, the moonlight growing a little brighter behind thinning clouds. The tunic alone seemed as if it would hang down below Rahab's knees. It, and the rough trousers shortened at the knees, should suffice to keep the boy sufficiently warm. Kain turned his attention to the minstrel himself.

Under any other circumstances, Kain would have simply stripped the man's memories and blood from his body, would have consumed both with relish. But if perchance the minstrel was of some importance, if the timestream rejected Kain's presence... Rahab would be abandoned here, in this era and these conditions. Kain snarled silently to himself. "Remain here until we are an hour departed," he ordered the minstrel, who nodded slowly. Such simple commands - compulsions - could be inserted into a human mind without causing undue damage. Kain glanced over the room, then picked up the remaining loaf of bread and tucked it away into a dimensional pocket, making it appear to vanish from his hand. He nodded to Rahab. "Come, boy."

Slowly, the boy gathered up Kain's red cloak, holding it loosely around his shoulders with his right hand. Even so, the edge dragged on the ground, as did the ragged hem of Rahab's bunched trousers. It was clear that the little mortal's pace would be straggling at best.

Kain was a mage of no small prowess, and he could cloak both himself and Rahab from the view of mortals quite easily... provided the boy did not stray far from his side. Kain sighed briefly, the corner of his lip twitching into a snarl of mild repugnance. And then he stooped down, scooping the boy up into the crook of his arm very carefully. "Do not expect that this shall be a frequent occurrence," Kain stated, as the boy gasped and wound his undamaged right arm instinctively around Kain's shoulders for balance.

Kain disliked handling humans under most circumstances. Oh, they made tolerable playthings to be sure, but they broke without warning, and so very easily. Rahab's tiny heart was hammering, and Kain could feel the rush of blood through the little human's arteries, could smell it through his skin...

Kain tucked the edge of his red shoulder cape a little closer around Rahab's shoulders, extending his awareness and his powers. The human minds around them were all quite soft, malleable, and it was simplicity itself to imprint his desire upon them, to cloak himself and the mortal he carried in a thin guise of unremarkability. The humans in the tavern's main room still whispered to one another, but not one of them noticed Kain descend the creaking stairs, carrying the human boy.

Unseen, Kain carried the little mortal out the tavern door, and into the dim and drizzling night.


	2. Chapter 2

\---  
Chapter two: nearest blood kin  
\---

the excruciating, lacerative blue of today's sky  
whose incandescence suggests  
that its nearest blood kin is neither  
violet nor emerald,  
but gold.

\---  
  


The night was cold and wet, and Rahab instinctively hunched tighter under the thick cloak, huddling against Kain's frame, as if he anticipated finding warmth there. There was none, of course – Kain's body temperature was only marginally above that of the night air, mainly because of the past few hours he'd spent in the close heat of the tavern. Humans, Kain knew, could perish quite easily of cold alone, at temperatures which scarcely made a vampire sluggish. But was it cold enough to kill, now? Kain did not know for certain; it had been a very, very long time since he had concerned himself with keeping a herd of slaves alive and healthy in the fields or quarries.

Kain's booted feet afforded poorer purchase on the muddied roads than cloven hooves. That brought to mind another problem – if he were forced to remain in the company of the boy for several days, or even weeks, how was he to maintain his shapeshifted form? It required a constant trickle of magical power. Not a great deal, to be sure, but eventually even Kain's reserves of energies would surely decline to dangerously low levels.

Within mere minutes, the little human began to shiver, even under the woolen cape. Its quaking ignited a knot of predatory hunger deep in Kain's belly – it would be easy indeed to tighten his grip, turn his head, and sink fang into the small, proffered throat… easy, yes, but surely not sweet. The boy was in poor condition, and his scent was that of an easy kill, not a fine meal. That helped. To an extent.

Despite the cloud cover, Kain could see as far as the surrounding forest permitted, the night no barrier to his vision. Once several miles from the town, Kain felt relatively secure that pursuit was unlikely for a time. No cry had been raised. With any degree of luck, the humans would remain too frightened to seek Kain out, and it would be morning before the minstral awoke from his stupor. Then it could be hours more before the local constable was summoned. A thick overhang of pine boughs beckoned, offering a little shelter, and Kain halted, setting the little human to his feet on the padding of needles. "Sit," Kain commanded shortly, gesturing the boy down. He expected to be obeyed without hesitation. Instead, Rahab set to tucking the brilliant red drape so that he could squat without soiling the fabric on the dirt and resin-sticky needles, unaware that the heavily-enchanted cape could be – and had been – dragged through sewers without staining.

The boy would have to learn proper obedience, just as any fledgling must, that was all there was to it. As soon as Kain could determine how to discipline the human without killing it, anyway. For the moment, he ignored the child, turning his attention instead to stripping small lengths of dry wood from the sheltered underbranches. Vampires needed little illumination and less warmth, and magical lights served far better than fire for the former, while carrying no risk of dangerous burns to volatile undead flesh. However, it seemed to Kain that humans always kept fire close to hand and heart if they could, huddling about it to fend off the terrors that lurked in the darkness. A fire would not, of course, defend Rahab from the greatest terror ever to stalk mankind – Kain had long since grown quite resistant to flames, after all. Still, fire was likely the quickest and safest means of keeping the little human warm.

Kain arranged the tinder some few feet from the boy, scooping loose needles away with his hands to bare a patch of soil. He'd last started a fire in, if he recalled correctly, the year 3902 – eighty six years ago, by his timeline. The wood was still damp – everything was damp – but once started, the pitch-dripping twigs should burn sufficiently well. Since Rahab already believed him a 'warlock,' Kain had no qualms about utilizing a cantrip to light the blaze. There were a number of very simple spells which human mages could employ to set flames; Kain chose to chance none of them. Magic which called upon the element of fire directly was unpredictable at best in any vampire's hands, even his. Instead, he utilized upon a more complex spell to summon a sustained arc of electricity, the heat of which ignited the wood with a hollow crackle.

Rahab flinched back, though only momentarily. He huddled closer, tugging the drape closer about him with his good right arm. His eyes – so very blue, even in the flickering orange light – never left Kain. For his part, Kain fed the fire a few larger pieces of wood, and then simply and wordlessly slung his cloak from his shoulders, spread it at the base of the tree, and seated himself. After a few moments, Rahab made a small movement. "Sire… do you wish me to…" he started, in a voice which shivered nearly as much as he did.

"I desire your silence and for you to sleep," Kain interrupted, gaze sliding idly to the huddled boy and then flicking away. "That is all." For several moments, Rahab made no move. But as Kain issued no further orders, the boy set to curling himself up, close to the fire, gingerly adjusting his broken arm in its sling. The shivering eased, and eventually ceased as the fire grew.

Kain leaned his head back against the roughness of the bark, and permitted his eyes to drift shut. The boy should be warm enough, for the time being, and he'd been fed – what else did humans require? Water – but did they need it more than once a day? Kain thought not. Fledglings needed training, and a great deal of it, lest they become little more than ravaging beasts, like Vorador's mad 'brides.' The boy was no fledgling, but would need instruction to fulfill his purpose all the same. But to whom, in the whole of this era, could Kain deliver an orphan whore for proper indoctrination into the Sarafan sect?

A monestary might do… but the Sarafan were a political and governmental organization, as much as a military one. No matter his talent, Rahab was unlikely to claim a high rank without considerable wealth and influence backing him. Who had such political standing? Aside from a handful of families in Coorhagen, the history of which Kain had been taught some three millennia ago, he presently knew of few such sources of power. Come to think of it… Coorhagen was far distant from Moebius' stronghold in this time, which lay upon the shores of the Great Southern Ocean. Even this early in history, Coorhagen had physicians and surgeons aplenty, for those who could afford their services.

Very well, then – Kain would return to Coorhagen. The notion held a certain irony that satisfied him. His course decided, Kain stilled, endeavoring to conserve energy over the forthcoming night as he kept watch. He was forced to continue breathing, lest he arouse suspicion, but he allowed that artificial rhythm to slow. The crackle of the little fire and the throb of Rahab's heart, even the unending drip of thin rain, were small distractions. Kain would be fully aware of any interloper long before they spotted the small fire. The forest was sparsely populated – every creature that could sense Kain had long since fled, though Kain could still scent the distant traces of trolls and common wrights. The closest living beings larger than a rabbit were a trio of forest bucks, which browsed nervously a quarter mile distant.

It did not take long, however, to discover that Rahab had no intention of sleeping. If anything, the boy's heart rate sped as the clouds began to thin, as the thin drizzle of rain ceased at last. Within two hours, the fire died to a glowing bed of coals, and Rahab began to stir.

With a growing sense of amusement, Kain tracked the boy's small noises as he crept from his warm cocoon of thick red wool, the rustle as he gathered the blanket up into a bundle. Rahab's bare feet padded all but silently in the thick carpet of pine needles. The boy approached, and for a moment Kain thought the fool human would dare attempt to curl himself against Kain's outstretched leg.

And then he felt small fingers at his belt, where hung the pouch filled with coins. How very surprising – the little whore was a thief as well. Kain would not have supposed he possessed the nerve. The boy was quick, well-practiced, slipping the ties loose and cupping the pouch carefully, so that the gold and silver within did not clink as the sack came free.

To Kain's pleasure, the boy was as silent and thorough during his exit as he was during the theft – he tucked the pouch away, gathered up Kain's red clan drape, and snuck to a distance before breaking into a jog. Kain tilted his head, his golden eyes slitting open. Yes, the moon was assuredly bright enough to illuminate Rahab's flight safely – it was unlikely the boy would tumble into a ravine. However… from the sound of it, the little human was headed back towards the town. Now that was disappointing, though given the creatures that could lurk the night, perhaps not unwise.

Kain stood. Thoughtfully, he picked up his own cloak, brushed it off, then toed damp needles over the glowing coals. He folded the oiled cloth away into a dimensional pocket, and then lifted his head, filling his senses with the little human's scent.

Kain set off at a ground-eating lope, an inhuman gait, silent and swift as the night itself.

Each of the boy's light footprints was picked out brightly to Kain's vision by the moonlight, dripping leaves offered up the scent laid thick upon them. Existence narrowed most pleasurably down to this, to the hunt, to his prey's panting breath, its fluttering heart. Shepherding the mortal was simplicity itself – a flash of paleness between the shadowed boughs, the scrape of the steel-shot boot on stone, and the boy froze, turned away from the distant town, fled once more.

The mortal's panic grew as the minutes passed. There was a boulder which, Rahab was certain, he'd seen a short time ago. Every sigh through the trees became a spur, every call of distant night beasts a newfound terror. He stumbled on loose scree, and then there was the scent of freshly spilling blood, lending hot carmine piquancy to the chase with every stumbling footstep as Kain drove him on.

But, Kain knew full well, all amusements must eventually come to an end. The third time Rahab fell, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his heart hammering like a bird's, Kain could chance continuing his correction no further.

The boy had fallen in a small vale, a sloping field through which trickled a small stream, cast in silver by the moonlight. His over-large clothing was wet through, and clung to his shivering body. Kain rose up, smoothing fur under skin with the ease of long practice, and stepped into the moonlight.

Rahab's wide eyes fixed on Kain, and the boy attempted to scramble to his feet. His ankle failed him once again, and he clawed his way, one-armed, backwards over the wet grasses. There was, for once, no trace of resigned acceptance in the storm blue of Rahab's eyes, rather an animalistic drive for survival. The boy clearly expected no mere beating or rape in retribution for his theft, but rather death. Kain was glad to see that spark of life, of defiance. The boy's hand closed on a thick, fallen branch, and he tensed, stilling, prepared to strike the moment Kain approached close.

"I believe you possess something belonging to me." Kain came to a halt just outside the boy's striking range. He drew a slow and unnecessary breath, tamping down the killing instinct thoroughly. The urge to complete the hunt was like the first gout of blood spurting down his throat, was like the fluttering pulse of prey under claw and fang – a beacon, a draw, a need. Kain was no neonate, his self-control had been forged in millennia of trials. Even still, it took a moment.

"You know me for a warlock, boy," Kain's voice was a grating rumble, the slide of shale down a mountainside. "What precisely do you think to accomplish against me with a half-rotted twig?"

If Kain believed that pointing out the child's helpless position would in some manner pacify the boy, the vampire lord was very much mistaken. Rahab's fist tightened around his weapon; he said nothing, but glared back. Evidently, if his death was assured in any case, the boy meant to perish fighting. And while Kain applauded the sentiment, Rahab's timing was, frankly, on the poor side.

Kain lifted a hand and with a well-practiced gesture, summoned telekinesis – careful, lest he seize a chunk of the boy's flesh as well as the purse – Kain reclaimed his erstwhile possession. The pouch of coins slipped from the boy's tunic and flew the intervening space, clicking into Kain's hand. His gaze narrowed as Rahab tensed with shock. If the human attempted to flee once more, Kain would flog the pads of the creature's feet until it could do naught but crawl for a week. That would solve the problem. Provided, of course, Kain was able to avoid inflicting permanent harm – perhaps he could employ his most lightweight strop, or a short length of reed... "Do you know why I retrieved you from that hell, boy?"

Rahab lay frozen a long moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head, just a small movement to the side and then back.

Kain loosed the drawstring of the purse in his hand. He found the coin he wanted by feel alone, by the scalloped edges and the embossed slickness of the metal. Kain withdrew the large platinum disk, held it up. The metal caught the light of stars and both visible moons, magnifying the glow, heightening it, casting a radiance around Kain's hand. "You are destined, boy, to become a prince among men." If that last word was presaged by a slight pause, Rahab seemed not to notice.

"This coin will someday be dug from your mines, minted by your forges." As the boy watched, Kain drove the pointed tip of one nail through the edge of the platinum disk; it took some small effort, for Kain was not so strong, nor his flesh so tough, in this form. He plucked from the air a thin length of leather thong, and threaded it through the hole at the rim of the coin, meanwhile entwining about the coin a minor magery: a spell to track and monitor the bearer of the enchanted object. "And like all currency from your great kingdom, it will be – has already been – inscribed with your image, Rahab."

Kain proffered the coin. It spun on its cord, flashing in the moonlight, now showing the seahorse stamped into one side, now the bust upon the other. Slowly, tentatively, Rahab reached for the coin, and Kain let it fall into the boy's one good hand. The little human had seen his face in puddles before, and once or twice in the looking glass the inn master kept. But never had he seen himself like this – the figure that stared boldly back from the coin was arrogant, assured, prideful in its strength, fiercely intelligent, an edge of humor lurking perhaps in the curve of the mouth. It was older, too, and smooth-skinned, not gaunt with hunger. And yet, there was something about the eyes, the high and fine arch of cheekbones, that struck Rahab as familiar.

The boy glanced up, and Kain needed no mind mageries to read his expression. "I have no cause to lie about this, boy, nor to go to the effort of spelling an illusion. The likeness is yours, and a true one."

There was silence as the boy turned the disk over and over in his hand. His voice was a whisper. "How… how did you..."

"You presented it to me," Kain said, somewhat wryly. "Or rather, you will." As tribute, naturally, though Kain saw fit not to mention that.

The boy's eyes, when he looked up, were like the night sea – black sapphire. "Are you Lord Moebius?"

\---

Kain blinked. He... could not, just at this moment, recall ever being insulted so. Even the Sarafan, when they'd still existed, tended to cleave to the usual worn and unimaginitive curses. How novel. "I am not." Kain tilted his head, weighing his options. "And it is best to refrain from speaking his name, or of the things I tell you this night. Time is his dominion and he is a jealous overseer -- he may not be well pleased to learn of my presence here." 

Kain knelt in the damp grass, every motion a feral grace. "My task now is to ensure that you attain your birthright – by whatever means prove necessary. To that end, we shall travel to a place for you to rest and heal, and then you will begin to learn the things which all children of nobility must master. I do not intend to injure you further, unless necessary. And no mortal shall use you as did the tavern patrons, save you will it. Do you understand me?" Perhaps it was enough information -- true, even, so far as the words technically went -- to keep the child from fleeing again. 

Rahab, shivering harder now as he cooled from his flight, bit at his lip as he thought frantically. He'd once seen merchants' children at study, long ago. But he remembered the tall pens and the smell of ink and the marvelous, strange runes etched on rough paper. "I... I could... learn to… look at books?" he asked hesitantly. 

Kain scrutinized the waif for several moments. "To ’read’, yes. Among a great many other things," he said. 

Rahab's shivering was becoming violent. In the inn, he'd often been warm, and frequently ate scraps from the kitchen in the evenings. He'd known what to expect -- of the innkeep, the girls, the clients. Here, Rahab was cold, imprisoned by an unpredictable and dangerous warlock who spun unlikely tales, and he had only the promise of food to sustain him. Food, and perhaps, just perhaps... the chance to touch a book, to look upon its secrets, to decipher them for himself.

Rahab gave the matter some thought; decided that it was, on balance, an equitable trade of circumstances. "Alright," Rahab said quietly, and nodded. 

"In that case," said Kain, a little bemused that the boy thought his agreement or disagreement made any real difference to the vampire lord -- though it was, perhaps, a useful fantasy to maintain, to the extent that it kept the mortal calm -- "I should be most displeased if you perished of the cold this night. Let us adjourn to someplace more sheltered." 

The boy obediently struggled to stand, clasping his enchanted coin close to his breast. A few limping steps by Kain's side, though, and the waif's ankle folded. The vampire lord was forced to turn and catch the wretch before he fell upon his already-injured arm, a further necessity of contact which the ancient vampire little appreciated. Kain snarled to himself quietly in pique even as he carried the boy downhill towards a thicket of traveler’s pines, where he might spread furs and blankets, and start a fire – for the second time in the last eighty-six years. 

This was going to be a very long trek, indeed.

\-----

The vampire lord chanced patrolling only a short distance that night, far enough to dispatch a young basilisk which denned among the crags nearby – the creatures were stupid enough to sometimes disregard a vampire’s presence, and could be dangerous to slave stock even at a distance. Kain could permit no such risk, however slight, to his charge. Seeking the creature out by scent from a half-mile away, ducking into its tight cavern, and spitting the beast upon the tip of an enchanted sword all took less than ten minutes. Taking his bearings from the top of the nearest ridgeline took a few minutes more, and confirmed Kain’s suspicions – they were almost directly north of Vorador’s manse, some four hundred miles from Coorhagen by land. Kain’s monitoring spell, embedded in the coin around the boy’s neck, kept constant vigil over the boy and his immediate surroundings all the while.

Even still, Kain dragged the basilisk’s limp corpse back to the campsite in order to strip the scales from it, rather than skinning the creature on the spot. The bronze-colored bony plates were a component of several spells, and Kain was hardly in a position to waste any chance at equipping himself more thoroughly. 

Which brought to mind a question. What resources, exactly, did Kain possess? 

The area now secured, there was little to do but find out. Selecting a flat expanse of rock some small distance from the fire, Kain spread a fur, hide-side up, and began to inventory his possessions. It was no small task – it had been decades, a century perhaps, since Kain had last bothered to fully sort through the items he carried, wrapped tight in dimensional folds. Object after object he produced and laid aside: a bolt of water-silk, several iron crucibles, map cases, a second pouch of coins minted mostly of silver, several curving pieces of glassware, a stack of old histories which treated on ages far in this time’s future, a cask of distilled alcohol, mortar and pestle, six weeks of taxation records for Turel’s kingdom, scraps of rope and other detrus, a dozen capes and changes of clothing, quills and ink, perhaps half a hundred bottles of powders and bones which marked a sorcerer’s trade, a bestiary of furs, a handful of jewels of good enchanting quality, the iron stakes of a great tent, a number of weapons of varying description, a wooden kite shield, three pieces of serioli armor, a small lapis carving of an Ancient, rivets and plates for the repair of gauntlets, tack for a Dumahim warhorse, and much more. Towards the end of it, Kain uncovered two small and long-forgotten crates of bloodvials – one half empty. Kain slid the lid from one of the wooden boxes, trailing fingertips lightly over the ornate wire-wrapped tops of the little philters within. He plucked one from its velvet depression and uncorked it, sipping whilst he thought. 

All told, Kain decided as he began to place objects back into the dimensional pocket, discarding those things without worth or possible use, the items he could part with probably amounted to a small fortune. And while it had been a very long time since Kain had concerned himself with local economies – value meant little when one could simply take what one wanted – he was fairly certain that this was sufficient to buy a manor house, lands, and the peasants to work it. The items were almost certainly not adequate to purchase a high rank amongst the Sarafan, not to mention the training and equipment such a position required. For the first time in all of this long, mazed journey, Kain regretted the loss of his treasure chambers, piled high with precious metals. If he’d thought to bring even a fraction of that wealth with him, Kain might have found an easy answer to his present dilemma. 

Of course, Kain’d had no use for gold, there in the blighted winter of his world.

It did not bear thinking upon -- what use was there in mourning over spilled blood? Kain would simply have to find another means of ensuring Rahab’s ascendancy. 

Lost in his plans, Kain kept watch as the horizon lightened.

..  
..  
..

Morning found Rahab restless, feverish.

His heartbeat was no faster or slower, but his body was shockingly hot in the nest of furs and textiles Kain had supplied the boy. He turned and murmured in his sleep. Kain woke him with a growled command, wary of touching the mortal, lest he break the creature still further in his clearly compromised state. The vampire lord had experience, of course, with plagues and poxes amongst the slaves. He even knew that there were types of fevers which could be cured, sometimes easily by Melchiah’s estimation, thus saving a valuable slave from being culled on the spot, and other types of fevers relating simply to injury. 

But he had never learned – had never dreamed he would need to know – the means of distinguishing one illness from another. Why would he, when every mortal was a disposable one? When a Melchiahim had been always close to hand to control any pandemic? Kain's own memories of being human, old as they were, provided few answers.

“Up, boy,” Kain growled again as the little human blinked blearily up at him. “Rise. We must move quickly, if we are to make good time.” At his usual effortless, inhuman lope – a pace that would kill most horses forced to it for long -- Kain might reach Coorhagen in six or seven days, even burdened with a small human and travelling without roads. But as he watched the mortal struggle to divest himself from the furs and blankets, a cold knot of fear began to twist in the pit of Kain’s belly. 

A human might perish in that time, mightn’t it? 

Uschtenheim was closer, but not by much, and the terrain was rougher. Villages and trading centers abounded, but was Kain to entrust the boy to a common hedge witch or bloodletter? Shifting a human into batform, alongside Kain’s own body, typically resulted in a gory disaster. 

And teleportation… well. Not even Kain could teleport to a place he had not seen, a place at which he had set no arcane anchors. He did know the mountains and lakes around the city quite well. But how would those sites change over the next few thousand years?

Materializing a league above ground would not greatly inconvenience Kain; appearing a league under it, or inside a tree, might be an uncomfortable delay. It would be almost certainly fatal for any mortal Kain carried.

Impossible, that with all the magics and materials at Kain’s disposal, he could not get one small human to a skilled chirurgeon with suitable speed. Simply impossible. There had to be a way – “Nay, boy. Hold,” Kain said, holding up a hand as the child stepped haltingly from his cocoon, still clutching the vampire lord’s drape close about his shoulders. Kain eyed the blankets, then the cloak, judging its length and durability. It… might do, at that.

“I shall send unto you a beast of the woods, ensorcelled by my magic,” Kain said to the boy, thinking rapidly. Long habit kept him from lying directly – other vampires could often scent deliberate untruth, even upon Kain himself. “It will convey you; I will be close to you in case of trouble, but unseen. You must knot yourself into the drape you bear, that it might carry you more easily. Do you understand?” The enchanted fabric was strong enough to hold, even against the great fangs of Kain’s wolf form, provided Kain was careful. The wolf was big enough that it might run freely, even with a burden of Rahab’s size dangling in its maw. 

And it was very, very fast. 

Rahab blinked, seemed confused. His voice croaked when he first tried it, and he licked dry lips. “I… yes. Yes, Sire,” he amended quickly, looking about him, eyes falling on the blankets and the embers of the fire, and then on the skinned and beheaded corpse of the basilisk, and the refuse which Kain had cleared from his dimensional pockets, clearly attempting to make sense of the changes the night had wrought.

Kain saw no particular reason to enlighten him. “Then make yourself ready, boy,” Kain said, “and I shall dispatch the beast to you shortly.” With no further ado, Kain turned on his heel and stalked towards the nearest stand of concealing trees, leaving the fevered boy alone in the clearing, the coin around his neck.

It would be good, Kain thought, to stretch his legs again.


	3. Chapter 3

\---  
Chapter three: the flame inside the flood  
\---

 

This blue must be gold's daughter,  
the flame inside the flood,  
the flood inside the wind,  
the wind inside the flame.

\----  


  


Kain ensured that he was well beyond the little mortal’s range of sight before he unpicked the arcane bindings on his physical form, and *shifted.* His every sense heightened, skin aching as it stretched and remolded, his essential substance uncoiling to fill its natural vessel. With the relief of a creature confined for far too long, only now released to the night, Kain stretched heavy-muscled limbs in the cool air. His vision clarified, sharpened, so that each creeping insect and each vein of the leaves around him burst into perfect focus. His hooves flexed into the soft forest soil, the cutting edges digging deep, providing purchase to support a mass greatly magnified, heavy with muscle and the weight of millennia of accumulated power. Kain filled his lungs simply for the luxury of it.

But he dared not delay long. Another slow stretch, intensely pleasurable, and Kain surrendered his natural form to the magic of shapeshifting once more, teeth set against the anticipation of pain. Bones twisted in their sockets, warping, lengthening. Tendons abandoned their anchors, sought new ones. Dense black muscle rippled beneath green-tawny hide, white hair darkened, spine lengthened into a lashing tail. Flat teeth lengthened, sharpened, jaws gaping in a butcher’s arsenal of finger-long fangs. Front paws the size of dinner plates touched ground, claws like daggers gripping the soil. A coarse, dark pelt flowed over the hell-thing that Kain had become.

His senses shifted as his form did. Vision faded a degree, though not so badly as it did when Kain sought human form. Scent and hearing both expanded to compensate – odors became almost tangible things, things with color and weight, a whole world of sensation in every panted breath, and even the movements of the small insects beneath the soil became audible.

Kain turned, and started for the boy’s clearing.

As always, it took him a few moments to relearn fine control of these limbs – they were long, disturbingly jointed, his tail was an unfamiliar weight, each wash of the breeze over his fur was a distracting caress. But after the first jolting steps, his strides lengthened, claws flashing. Muscles bunching smoothly he leapt a collection of boulders, tumbled taller than a man, with easy strength.

The young aspen and pine trees were packed thickly, this part of the forest untouched by the hand of man. The spaces between them were choked with tall grass, though this was little bar to Kain’s vision, for his back would have reached a man’s lowest ribs and he held his head still higher. But as Kain neared, and the errant breezes changed their course, it became obvious that something wasn’t right. There was ash on the air, and the stink of searing meat. Had the boy fallen into the coals? The monitoring spell had given no warning! Kain burst into the meadow at a full bodied run, long morning shadows flashing over his pelt, brimstone-yellow eyes gleaming like embers.

The child had clearly not followed orders.

He was still swaddled in Kain’s clan drape – that, at least, he had managed. But the boy had evidently sorted through some of the debris Kain had left behind, discovering prizes – a small dagger with a bent tip, several metal stakes, broken bits and pieces. He was using the first of these to hack strips of meat from the basilisk’s skinned tail. Other gibblets were threaded on one of the stakes, which was arranged between stones over the rebuilt fire.

The muffled crunch of a paw upon gravel alerted the mortal and he jerked upright, turned too fast. The boy’s eyes were bright with fever, reddened from too little sleep. He gasped, the dagger clutched in his one good hand, twitching as if he meant to run and then freezing like a rabbit caught in a raptor’s full view. The scent of the mortal’s sudden fear was a salt tang between them, new terror layered over old. And there was certainly reason for fear.

Kain’s wolf form was monstrous, as unlike a natural wolf as Kain himself was unlike a human. Hellhounds, those rare demonic beasts associated with the plane of fire, were closer in size. But even those creatures lacked Kain’s mouthful of layered fangs -- and the vampire’s sheer strength, built upon a body designed for murder.

The vampire lord slowed to a trot as he neared, then a walk, golden eyes the size of the child’s fists narrowing in consideration. How in the abyss was he to pick the wretch up like this? Kain came to a halt a few strides away, studying the problem. The salt tang of the boy’s fear was even more alluring than before. When the boy did nothing, Kain inclined his muzzle towards the dragging end of the crimson clan drape, and exhaled hard, making a huffing sound, in the hopes of reminding the human of his duty.

The boy drew a deep and deliberate breath. He stated to speak, voice cracking, then tried again. “Uhm. Hello,” said Rahab, at long last. "W-would you like some meat?"

Perhaps the terror of the past two days had addled the creature’s wits. Kain said nothing, waiting with narrowed eyes for the mortal to perform as ordered. Neither a maw full of jagged teeth nor a tongue made for scouring the blood-marrow from bones particularly facilitated speech. And his hands, lacking the prerequisite thumbs, could hardly tie the proper knots themselves.

The boy bit at his lower lip. “I kind of, erm. I kind of thought you’d be a pony,” he said.

Kain exposed an inch more of his long fangs in a silent snarl.

Rahab reached down slowly, with the hand that held the knife, and picked up a small piece of meat he’d dropped in his terror. Then he tossed the flesh in Kain’s direction. It bounced over the trampled grass, leaving rusty marks behind, and came to rest nearly upon the vampire’s right forepaw.

Kain growled as he stalked a step to the side and seated himself away from the scrap of meat. _Damnation, boy. Do as you were told!_

There was no reply to Kain’s aggravated Whisper. The human did not even appear to detect the mental sending. That was to be expected – even strong fledglings took decades to master the skill – and yet Kain found it disappointing, regardless. Also, inconvenient. Might it be possible to knock the wretch to the ground, and gather the corners of the cloak himself, then tie them with some combination of teeth and forepaw?

Gradually, tentatively, the boy relaxed, letting the battered point of his dagger dip. “If… if you aren’t going to eat me… can… can I eat? If I finish quick, I mean?”

 _‘May I’, whelp_ , Kain found himself correcting, out of long habit. While he supposed he would have to make an allowance or two for the mortal’s upbringing to date, such laxness of form and cultivation would simply have to stop. That classless accent, too.

But as for the boy’s proposition – Kain considered it. He little liked the stench of cooking flesh. But on the other hand, a well-fed fledgling was a quiet one, and perhaps the same was true of humans. And a delay would give Kain a few more moments to attempt a solution to his present conundrum.

The massive wolf nodded its head, and in case that was not sufficient indication, stretched his clawed forepaws forward and laid down, belly flat to the grass. Even still, holding his head erect, he could very nearly look the child in the eye.

“Thank you. Uhm.” The boy paused a moment more, and then stepped over the basillisk tail – putting it between he and the wolf, for all the good that would do him – and commenced to cutting once more. Another skewer soon lay over the fire, and Rahab pulled the first from the coals with a bit of scavenged fabric. Squatting on a fallen log, attention divided between food and wolf, Rahab commenced to tearing bits of sizzling meat from the skewer, gulping them down gracelessly, as if he expected this to be his last meal.

Kain watched him for a short time with eyes like brimstone, then permitted his attention to drift to the items still scattered around the clearing. After a short time, he rose, ignoring the human’s sudden tension, and stalked to nose through the wretch’s bedroll. A large square of undyed flannel, originally destined to be stitched into the padding worn beneath armor, bore a degree of strengthening enchantment. Kain dragged it away from the others with his teeth, and set to spreading it on the ground. It took some few moments – the wolf’s body was not well-suited to fine dexterous actions, and teeth made a poor substitute for hands when smoothing an object flat. The matter at last accomplished, Kain looked to the boy, growling shortly in indication that it was long past time to leave.

Rahab swallowed the last of his meat half-cooked. The mortal’s expression appeared pained, but as Kain detected no greater degree of physical distress through the monitoring spell upon the coin the boy bore, he presumed that the human was merely thinking hard. “I… I think I know how to do this. I… guess you need a… maybe you already have… uh. I’ll just call you Lord Wolf?” the boy inquired, in rather confusing and disjointed fashion, as if unaccustomed to speaking at length, as he stood and limped to where Kain had discarded several frayed hemp ropes. He took one up and then started, hesitantly, towards the enormous canid.

The black wolf’s eyes narrowed as the mortal bypassed his carefully arranged blanket and with scarcely a pause, tossed one end of the rope over Kain’s back.

Snarling a murderous hiss such as never could emerge from a natural canine’s throat, Kain turned on the boy, managing to restrain himself only at the last moment from delivering a reflexive, cautionary bite. Kain's spawn certainly knew better than to take familiar liberties. All of his fledglings – Rahab too, in time – would know the pain of the wolf’s jaws… and much more besides.

 

Yet this was not Kain’s Rahab. How, precisely, was the vampire lord to discipline a creature as fragile as this one? Even a nip might kill. The boy, for his part, appeared scarcely to notice Kain’s abortive lunge. He patted the wolf’s wiry flank soothingly, making a tsking sound with his teeth as one did to calm nervous horses. “Tsa, there, I’ma trying to hurry. There now… easy, Lord Wolf.” Rahab crooned, and leaned down to sweep up the square of flannel, ruining Kain’s careful arrangement. One wadded corner followed the rope over the wolf’s back, around his shoulders.

Kain growled low as the little mortal crouched, found the dangling ends of the rope and fabric, and drew them tight around the wolf’s neck. Using teeth and one hand, the mortal tied a knot and cinched the rope tight, clearly practiced. Had breath mattered more than incidentally to Kain, he might have found himself uncomfortable. Again the boy tossed a length of rope over his back, wrapping it around his neck and beneath his chest several times, making of the rope and twisted flannel a harness, of sorts. Then he stood back a little, one hand still on Kain’s heavy-muscled shoulder, clearly trying to decide how to proceed.

After a few moments of the boy’s ministrations, Kain snapped his jaws shut. He was an old creature, and a prideful one -- but disinclined as he was to indulge the stripling, standing upon that pride was doing nothing but wasting time. And while time was one thing Kain had in abundance, the same could not be said for the shivering waif that fickle Fortuna had left to his care.

Still, Kain was no beast of burden, to crouch and cower before a master. The rope about his neck was there only because he allowed it, and the human would do well to remember that. With a last narrow-eyed stare, he turned away from the boy and paced over to a nearby deadfall. The timber was half-rotted, and he had hacked away dryer portions of the wood upon its underside in order to start his fire the eve before. But the bulk of the log remained, and it was sizeable enough to serve as a mounting-block of sorts, even for a undersized boy. He stepped alongside it and waited, a trickling growl of impatience escaping as he did so.

The boy had made a stifled sound of protest when Kain had shouldered away from his hand--but now that a solution had presented itself, he hesitated, his apprehension plain. Kain growled again, impatient with his dithering. Sucking in a breath, the mortal approached--and when the wolf did not move away, he climbed ungracefully upon the log. Reaching out, he wrapped the fingers of his good hand upon the rope about the wolf’s neck, and daring greatly, slung one leg over that coarse-furred back, pulling himself astride.

“Th-thank you, Lord Wolf,” the boy said apologetically, legs clamped uncomfortably-tight about Kain’s ribs.

At least the mortal’s weight was no inconvenience -- indeed, it was scarcely noticeable at all. The wriggling of fingers and toes into his thick fur, however, were rather moreso; three points of tickling sensation as the boy firmed his grip, working his good arm and both feet under the crosswork of rope and flannel tied across the wolf’s back, fingers and toes clutching fur. The spread of Kain’s own clandrape like a red riding cloak over his haunches, the boy’s heartbeat, and the heat of his body, all were utterly novel sensations. The mortal’s fidgeting settled after a few moments.

“Uhm. I’m ready,” stated the boy, entirely unnecessarily.

Rumbling his pique, Kain took a few steps, prepared for the feel of the boy’s slight mass sliding from his perch. But the mortal clung like a limpet, so lightweight that even his slight strength -- when factored with the tautness of the ropes -- seemed quite sufficient to keep him in place. The wolf kept to a walk across the sloping field, tall grass shushing by to either side. At the edge of the western forest, brush and autumn-blooming shrubs were clumped thickly, to twice the height of a man; under other circumstances, Kain would have simply jumped these, or ducked under. Now he picked his way through with care, so that only soft leaves and tiny twigs scraped his burden.

Though the mortal’s heartbeat sped a little, and his scent sharpened slightly, he seemed in no distress. Upon breaching the maze of underbrush which rimmed the forest proper, Kain permitted his pace to quicken, wide paws funding sure footing amongst the stones and tumbled smallwood. As Kain ghosted deeper into the forest, the trunks thickened and the ground-choking vegetation thinned, and clear paths proliferated. As always, the woods were nearly quiet around Kain, most living things capable of sensing death either fleeing or huddling still and silent, as their natures dictated.

The wolf’s flowing gait was smoother than any horse’s, his wide paws silent over the terrain, layered tendon and muscle absorbing the impact of each stride and transmuting it into forward force. A small streamlet was bypassed easily, Kain’s clawed feet finding certain purchase on wet and moss-covered stones, the wolf’s agility so great that he did not even have to slow his pace. The next stream, though, had carved deeper into the soft soil, cutting a channel several lengths deep and wide.  With a curt growl of annoyance, the wolf paced upstream, seeking a fallen tree or crumbled embankment.

The underbrush grew thickly along the bank, dense shrubbery and viney growths winding their way underfoot until Kain was forced further away from the stream’s edge in order to prevent the whelp from being scraped from his back. The boy was surprisingly silent, hanging on with tenacious strength without so much as a yelp or a whimper, his fear evident only in the slightly quickened breaths that puffed against the coarse fur of his neck and the drumming of the heart within that birdboned chest. Despite himself, Kain could not prevent a small spark of approval--perhaps the creature was not as worthless as he had feared.

Turning to avoid a wickedly-thorned tangle of vines, Kain came across a trampled down deer track--and following it, found it led down to a wide and shallow ford in the stream, the water slowing in a broad eddy. Kain’s lupine nose told him this eddy was a favorite for the beasts of the forest--but even though the water was shallow enough here to allow both deer and other, lesser beasts to cross without any trouble, it was still an impassible and deadly expanse to a vampire. Kain snarled a little, lips curling back from fangs in frustration. It was tempting just to leap across this obstacle--but the awkward burden he bore made that impossible.

There was a tree, however, that lay askew across the eddy’s mouth. It was certainly no forest giant--in truth, it was not much bigger than the timber that grew near human villages. But the bulk of its trunk lay above that deadly waterline, and it stretched almost across to the other shore.

Kain considered it. Then, with an impatient huff, decided it was worth the risk. Setting first one clawed forepaw upon the fallen tree, he tested its solidity--and when the trunk bowed slightly, but did not break, eased the rest of his weight upon it. In this, his unnatural size was not to his advantage, and he was forced to creep, one slow step after another, over the rushing water as the trunk narrowed to a precarious ribbon of wood beneath his paws. One more step, two--and then a hind foot slipped. Scrabbling for purchase, his flailing foot splashed into the water with a hiss and the sizzle of scorched flesh. Growling, Kain lunged, throwing himself forward in a muscular leap, the whelp letting out a desperate yelp of fear for the first time, fingers clutching painfully tight upon his fur--

\--and then they were on the other side, scrabbling up the embankment until they were far enough for Kain to recover his composure. He shook his hind foot, bending his head around to look at it, growling low in his throat. A superficial wound, nothing more, but it would hamper him somewhat until enough time had passed for it to heal.

The boy stirred, his death-grip relaxing minutely. “Are … are you hurt, Lord Wolf?” he asked hesitantly.

Kain growled in curt reply and started moving, his long-legged trot a little slower now and not quite so smooth, each spread of clawed hindpaw leaving behind a few drops of thick black vitae or a tuft of half-melted fur. The injuries seared by water were persistent on his kind, comparatively slow to close -- and the misstep had sunk his leg in the stream nearly to the hock. Even still, Kain could feel thick hide spread rapidly over the raw place, an itching, crawling sensation that overlaid the pain of the burn.

He could not stop to attend more closely to the wound. To judge by the shift of weight and the mortal’s bizarre inquiry -- how in the abyss would it matter if Kain took injury? Perhaps the boy had meant to ask something important, like if Kain could still run, or fight -- the boy meant to dismount, if he could. And that could not be permitted. Few creatures took injury from water and of these, vampires were the most common. If Kain were branded truthfully... well. The boy took fear of warlocks; discovering himself a vampire’s charge might stop his heart.

Given a little time, the burn sealed over, healing without scar or mark. As it did, the great wolf gradually lengthened his stride, old trees flashing by, every hour at such pace covering five leagues or more as the sun rose higher. Recalling how cleverly Rahab had clung to his makeshift harness before, Kain chanced a few more jumps when circumstances demanded -- short ones only, over shallow ravines and streamlets -- which permitted him to run a truer course, due west. No creatures chanced crossing Kain’s path, but their scents spoke of their recent presence -- reclusive giant deer, squat-legged forest hydras with their many spreading hoods, huge aurochs like mountains of lumbering meat, rooting boar and northern tapir. There were other, more acrid scents, too. Cave wrights nested somewhere to the north. In places, skeletons slumbered uneasily beneath the leaves, and some of them would walk with nightfall. A freshened breeze brought the musk tang of common wyvern to the wolf’s nose, and he slowed momentarily, then adjusted his route to avoid an outcrop of crags where such creatures might perch. Common wyverns were more stupid even than basilisks, and fiercer.

Eventually, the boy on his back began to squirm. Not twenty minutes -- and two leagues -- later, Kain was loping through a dry pine forest, his tread silent on the thick bed of needles. An impertinent hand worked its way from under the twist of the makeshift harness, and patted hesitantly at the back of Kain’s head. “Uhm. Lord Wolf. I need to... uh.”

The wolf hissed, ears laid flat against his skull. But what had he expected? The creature was but mortal, after all, encumbered with all the same weaknesses that Kain’s own kind overcame upon raising. Teeth bared in unconscious evidence of his displeasure with the delay, Kain permitted himself to trot to a halt, paws crunching in the fallen leaves. He held himself quite still, whilst the boy worked his limbs from under the harness and slid from Kain’s side. Alighting, Rahab caught himself with one hand on Kain’s stone-hard shoulder, patting the wiry fur a few times. Then he tottered for the nearest tree, bow-legged and stiff as an old man, though he’d been riding but a handful of hours.

Exhaling hard in impatience, Kain took a moment to gather his bearings, to the extent he could. The thick trees made it difficult to take a line of slight. But, crossing a dry ravine some leagues back, he’d spotted a familiar, flat-topped upthrust looming huge amidst the surrounding mountain peaks to the north. Malak’s bastion would rise there, carved stone by stone from the granite cliff faces, probably soon. The pattern of the hills seemed right, the terrain growing steadily steeper as they neared the ragged divide that separated Coorhagen’s deep valleys and the sea from the rest of the teeming continent.

For the first time in a handful of minutes, Kain drew a deep breath, tasting the air, seeking out some scent that might provide a nearer hint at location. Leaf litter and decay, insects and small animals, the boy... and a powdery, subtle scent, like talcum or dust, so natural to Kain’s experience that for a moment, he could not place it.

Then there was a short, terrified cry from the boy--trousers half-undone, he stumbled backward and fell among the gnarled roots of the tree as a pallid and starved creature rose up from the darkness of the forest. Movement came before thought, and Kain lunged before the starving vampire, creeping through the bushes and intent upon his prey, could do more than turn, the wolf’s fangs sinking deep into undead flesh. Taloned paws dug deep into the loam as Kain turned, flinging his victim away from the whelp with a savage twist of his head, his teeth tearing muscle away from bone. The vampire--in this age, undoubtedly one of Vorador’s pathetic get--hissed in defiance as it rolled to its feet, either too desperate or too immature to understand the truth of what he faced. He charged, fangs bared, black-clawed hands ready to rip and tear, and with a snarl Kain met him, blocking him bodily from the cowering boy and closing jaws about the vampire’s unarmored throat. In a welter of blood and gore he bit through that pallid neck, bones crunching beneath his teeth; the vampire thrashed, clawing at the gray-furred form as thin, dark blood spilled upon the forest floor.

It did not take long for the creature to die a second time. Within moments the vampire had bled out, and another savage bite of Kain’s jaws separated the head fully from the body. True death set in, and the body crumpled beneath his paws, dissolving into ash adorned by bits of leathered skin and bone.

Licking the vampire’s blood from his jaws--thin, unsavory stuff, hardly worthy of his consumption, really--Kain turned to inspect his charge. He did not think the vampire had managed to injure the boy, but given all else that had happened over the past night, it would be just his luck to have the whelp break yet another of those bird-bones ...

Huddled small and still amidst the gnarled coils of ancient roots, the boy panted in shallow breaths. But his undamaged right hand clutched the little dagger he’d found, bent tip wavering but ready. Kain huffed shortly, nosing at the boy’s tunic, scenting for pain or the smell of fresh blood. He would have to obtain an enchanted silver blade and suitable training for the whelp, if the creature insisted on attempting to defend himself so.

Moving slowly, shivering, Rahab tucked his little eating knife back into his makeshift belt. He patted hesitantly at the bloodied fur across Kain’s chest. The fight had been so brief, over in a flash, but that ragged man... had been no man, Rahab was certain of it. Dry dust, scraps of skin, and bones were all that remained now. The bare skull was intact, and the howling gape of its jaw housed fangs. Bards spun tales of it, soldiers breathed stories of it -- daywalker, dead-kin, cutter of life, alp, greatest necrophage. Vampire. “Better than a pony. A lot, lot more better,” Rahab whispered, thin fingers worming through the wolf’s thick mat of guardhairs, stroking over the skin beneath, searching for the places that the doomed and desperate fledgling had scored in its brief struggle. The minor gouges had closed within moments after being carved.

It was a strange sensation, being stroked in this form, one utterly novel in all Kain’s long existence. Satisfied that the boy had sustained no further damage, the vampire lord stepped back, watching carefully as the mortal levered himself slowly to his feet, apparently still stiff, but in no worse condition than before the attack. Kain had given little thought to the other hunters of this forest -- but in this deep country, the things which fed upon mankind were nothing short of desperate, evidently willing to risk crossing even Kain. And it was the height of the day, now. Come nightfall....

The boy scrabbled for a handful of fabric as his purloined trousers threatened to slip down his thin hips. “Is ‘e .... Is ‘e dead?” Rahab asked after a moment, curiosity clearly piqued, as he bound up his breeches as well as he could with but one hand. The boy leaned down and picked up a thin stick.

At least, Kain decided, the boy was rather more resistant to mental trauma than to physical. He was half-minded to let the whelp poke and explore as he pleased; Kain had little regard for fledglings not his own, and even less for the starving thing that had dared to attack Kain himself. But with such solid proof of the dangers of the wildcountry before him, Kain could not permit Rahab to waste precious minutes in the pursuit of mere curiosity. With a low growl, he paced forward, agility belying his size, to interpose himself between the mortal and his object of interest.

The boy stumbled backwards a few steps, suddenly apprehensive--then recovered, dropping the stick to clutch at the ties to his trousers. He extended a hand to pat one gray-furred shoulder. “I--uh, I understand, Lord Wolf.” Kain had to suppress a very unwolflike snort--it seemed the boy thought his motives were spurred by protectiveness, not impatience--damn his inability to speak in this form! Or for that matter, the wretch’s inability to Whisper.

“I’ll just, uh--” Losing what little mastery of the language he had possessed, the boy waved vaguely at a nearby tree, and headed toward it after a last glance over his shoulder. Once there, he did his business--Kain wrinkled his nose at the sharp, unpleasant scent of human urine--then did up his trousers once more, eyeing the shadowed forest with no small amount of trepidation.

Kain gave another impatient snarl, and the boy jumped, then scurried back to the wolf’s side. The vampire stoically endured the inevitably clumsy fumbling as the boy clambered up upon a nearby root and from there, to his back. Then he set off once again, ignoring the whelp’s yelp and frantic clutch at the makeshift harness, irritated by the time he had wasted playing nursemaid to human frailties.

Despite their dallying, however, they made good time through the remainder of the day. The forest had thinned, the trees more windblown and twisted as the land became more broken beneath his paws, tumbled boulders adorning hillsides and turning their path into a winding progress. At this pace, Kain thought they might make Coorhagen by the end of another day. He looked forward to being able to shed this form; wolf-shape might have its uses, but it was sorely lacking in many ways. Such as hands, for instance.

Night had fallen, with a slivered moon on the rise, before Kain realized that something was wrong. His burden had been silent ever since the clearing, with only the boy’s puffed exhalations evidence that he still breathed. But now--those breaths were a great deal more rapid, and the body pressed along his spine was trembling, shivering with cold. Damnation! He paused, orienting himself. Coorhagen was still too distant--there was no chance they would make it there this night. But upon the wind was the scent of woodsmoke, and horses, and … spices? Such things meant a human encampment--and it was becoming clear that if he wished this whelp to survive, Kain would require the services of the boy’s own kind.

Growling low in his throat, he changed course, nose in the air to track that elusive scent. He did not think they were far off; and most likely near water, as humans always were.

Rahab shivered harder with each passing minute as Kain picked his way along the crest of a rocky cliffside, the ground here rugged and irregular. The wolf’s body was cold, nearly the temperature of the cool night air, though thick fur provided some insulation to keep the boy warm. And Kain’s crimson clandrape, voluminous though it was, bore no particular enchantments to preserve warmth -- a vampire needed no such luxuries, after all.

A prickle across Kain’s skin made him pause, lift his head. His ability to sense fine degrees of temperature variation was poor in general, but he felt suddenly as if he had stepped into a pocket of colder air. Much colder, to judge by the way the little mortal shifted his weight, shivers becoming full-body tremors. And then, pressed close between Kain’s shoulder blades, the coin around the boy’s neck began to vibrate, its clamor felt in the ancient vampire’s mind as well as against his skin.

With a vile and very unwolflike hiss, Kain turned, fangs bared -- but only a swirl of mist amongst wind-tortured trees greeted his sight. Nor did his sense of smell indicate any enemy. Yet even in the few seconds that Kain searched with his natural senses, the medallion's klaxon warning intensified. No nightwraith or common specter would hunt a vampire: any enchanted weapon or minor spell could defeat such incorporeal spirits easily. And other undead had no nourishment for these lesser ghosts to steal, for they devoured the living heat of weakened creatures.

But Kain was bearing bait upon his back. And in this form, possessing neither hands nor voice, Kain had no magical defenses.

Turning tightly, the wolf fled. The boy’s grip was lax, too loose, and only the child’s light weight and the manner in which he’d wedged bare feet and good arm under the makeshift harness kept him in place as the wolf vaulted tangles of branches and rockfalls. The night streaked by in a blur, each full running stride covering fifteen feet or more, the wolf skidding down a debris-strewn slide, leaping a quartz-glittering ravine, flashing across a barren hilltop like a massive grey ghost.

The real ghosts were faster, so close that Kain could feel them now, could sense the spectral presence, insubstantial and tattered hands reaching for his prize, pawing at the cloak that covered the boy. Subaudibly howling things, wisps and shades, the nightwraiths phased directly through barriers that Kain was forced to vault or circumscribe.

Lashing paws carried Kain around the next bend of a narrow-snaking valley and there, just ahead -- fire. Campfires, glowing between the bulk of several encircled wagons, upon which elaborate paint and gilding gleamed in the firelight. Alerted by their own warning magics, humans scrambled for weapons, their shadows darting, utensils overturned in the chaos. Scarcely changing course and never slowing, Kain shouldered aside a startled sentry, the slender man caught mid-yawn, struck flat to the ground. A prickle of energy whispered over Kain’s fur, and then directly ahead, in a huge ring around the wagons --

\-- flames ignited midair.

No minor gauzy sheet of repellent magic, this was a ward, grounded in complex sigils scratched into the soil, the lines and whorls now radiant with energy. Great sinuous ropes of fire coiled and wove, knitting themselves into a scintillating wall of fire, a barrier bright enough to strike fear into the heart of any undead.

Kain was not just *any* undead.

Eyes narrowed to slits against the fiery glow, the wolf changed course, great hunks of sod thrown up under his flashing paws, streaking directly for one of the huge wards which anchored the repellent wall. Even as he gathered his strength, steel-tempered muscles bunching, he could feel his burden’s grip begin to fail. The ropes had loosened in Kain’s mad dash, and the boy’s own strength was all but gone.

Wraiths howling at his heels, he launched himself into the air, straight at the fiery wards. The wards seared at his skin, scorched the edges of his fur in a moment of bright-flashing agony, the inimical magic within attempting to bar his passage; but Kain was not only vampire, but Balance Guardian as well, the embodiment one of the primal forces that rooted all of Nosgoth, and no hedge-wizardry could hope to stand against him. Fire crackled, lashing like whips to tangle and tear--and was repelled by the dark press of Kain’s own power, smothering the flames before they could sear undead flesh from bone.

Landing, Kain felt his burden lurch, then slide, the whelp’s strength finally failing him even as shouts of alarm and dismay rang all about them, humans running to confront the demon-wolf in their midst with torches and steel. Rahab fell, an ungainly and unconscious weight, and Kain found himself caught in the tangle of both boy and makeshift harness. This situation, he decided, was both undignified and unacceptable.

Snarling in aggravation, he released his hold upon wolf-shape, the twisted cloth of the harness dropping away as he stood upright once more in his true vampiric form--then, before the light of the spell could fade, caught at another and assumed his aristocratic guise. A pale, obviously inhuman nobleman was unlikely to be much more reassuring to a human encampment such as this, who suffered as much from their own kind as the beasts that haunted the wild. It would, however, ensure far less blind terror than his true visage, and a much greater chance that he would be obeyed, especially if combined with a judicious amount of force.

“I require food, shelter and what healing you can provide for the boy,” he commanded, ignoring both torches and makeshift blades as unworthy of his attention. The human males, clad in ragged but clean garb, shifted. They had ringed the creature, holding him at bay from the rest of the encampment--but none of them seemed keen to attack. The thing that stood before them was unlike any they had ever seen--not a ravening vampire, nor a mindless zombie. Far too solid to be either wraith or any other night-hauntings, the pale man could only be a wizard, or something far more terrible ...and none of them wished to be the first to fling themselves into the fray against such a creature!

Kain’s eyes--no longer golden, but raptor-keen nonetheless--narrowed. “Now, vermin, if you value your worthless lives. Or do I need to skewer a few of your worthless band in order to hasten your obedience?”

Behind Kain, lit by the arcane glow of the wards, several of the insubstantial wraiths struck the now-weakened barrier. A few vaporized. Others of the spectres, marginally stronger than the others and enmaddened by the prospect of unconscious prey so close, clawed at the ragged and slowly-closing puncture caused by Kain’s passage through the shield, howling like the damned things they were. Others drifted back, turned, their forms wavering and fading as they moved away from the illumination... and then the sentry too was screaming, the human left outside the barrier.

Inside the ring of wagons, a few of the women dressed in bright patchwork garb took up a wailing cry as well, and commenced to throwing themselves against those men and boys who, wisely, had stayed back. The mad flickering and dancing of the disrupted wards made shadows leap and twitch like wraiths themselves.

It was all profoundly irritating.

And potentially dangerous, too -- Kain could permit no interruption that might fatally divert his attention from the boy crumpled at his feet. With a low hiss of impatience, Kain lifted his hand, found the strands of magic that he needed by nothing more than the feel of them in his mind and between his fingers. And twisted.

Every nearby undead, other than Kain himself, erupted into bright blue flame -- attenuating, dying, their shadowed tatters of souls ripped free and cast to the sucking void. The spectres vanished, even the strongest lasting only a second or two under Kain’s assault. Further out in the forest, there were other flares -- rats or ravens, perhaps, scavengers which had dared feed on common shambling zombies, or skeletons so old they lay immobile and harmless but yet unliving. The spell was indiscriminate. Nothing that lacked a beating heart survived.

The human trapped outside the circle kept up its caterwauling for a moment, then fell silent, coughed a few times in confusion, and started back towards camp, shivering. The wards, no longer sensing undead along the perimeter, began to power down, their harsh glare fading out. On the other side of the wagons, one of the shieldback draftbeasts placidly lifted its head, tiny eyes blinking blearily, then the creature turned back to its silage. Beneath a wagons, one of the bull-mastiffs -- enormous dogs akin to wolves and bred for protection -- whimpered. Shocked silence reigned.

Kain’s lip curled, a gesture that would have exposed a single long canine fang, had this form been blessed with them. “Force me to repeat myself, tzigane, and I will --”

“Nay. Nay, Sirah, there be no need for any of that.” A woman long past bearing years pushed her way between two of the blade-wielding men. Her hair was almost as white as Kain’s, her skin wizened like a half-dry grape. Only rarely did humans attain such an age under the Empire’s dominion. “Andrzej, Mihai, enough. Go see what be wrong with the dogs. Nicu, make up a warm bed for this boy, and fetch my unguents. You there, carry him.” The woman struck at one man’s arm with her staff -- a weak blow, but one which seemed to galvanize the mortals as thoroughly as the crack of any slaver’s whip. Chastened and confused, the men sheathed their blades. One of them stepped hesitantly towards the vampire lord, as if he meant to touch Kain’s boy.

Kain growled at the importunate reach; the sound was not as inhuman as it might have been in his true form, but was sufficiently menacing  to make the bearded man back hastily away. “Guide us, woman, and make it quick. I am hardly about to leave the whelp to you unwatched.” Cradle-robbers and child-stealers, the prudish and suspicious towns-dwelling farmers and villagers named the travelling folk, usually without cause. But tzigane were not without curses and tricks aplenty, all finely honed to survive in a world where every hand was against them, and Kain would be a fool indeed to leave that which he intended to protect unguarded in their hands.

The old woman hesitated, some of her assumed authority faltering for a moment--then she gave him a deferential nod, waving the man away. “Of course, Sirah. This way, if it be your will.” Leaning on her staff, she moved towards one of the wagons closest to the center of the encampment and the fire. Kain knelt to draw his arms -- carefully! -- under the boy’s limp frame and then followed, carrying the shivering weight of the boy effortlessly, and ducked his head to enter as she led the way inside. A heavy combination of foreign spices, human scent and old wood made for a pungent atmosphere indeed, and Kain had cause to be thankful his nose in this form was no longer vampire- or wolf-keen. He could also feel the prickle of minor magics woven into the ornate rugs and worn carvings of the walls, but none of seemed inimical to the undead--or if they were, they were not potent enough to affect an elder.

The woman gestured to the narrow bench-bed that ran along the far wall. Piled high with thick-woven and brightly-patterned blankets, it was more than large enough for the slight boy he carried. “If you would put him there, Sirah--we must warm him before all else.” There was a discreet rap upon the door, and she scooted around the vampire lord with the adroitness of a creature used to confined spaces. The man she had named ‘Nicu’ had returned, it seemed--she took a wrapped chest from him with the liquid murmur of hushed conversation, then turned back to her patient, flapping an impatient hand at the worried man when he seemed inclined to linger.

The whelp coughed hoarsely in his sleep, then snuffled a bit, thin fingers plucking at the blankets. Kain scowled down at him; did the wretch have to be so blasted *pitiful*? It seemed so impossible, the idea that a strong, proud fledgling could ever emerge from this pathetic chrysalis of shivering flesh and bone …

Back creaking ominously, the woman placed the wrapped chest on the floor beside the little bed. She straightened only to find the creature’s child shivering atop the blankets, and sighed briefly. Using the knob of her staff, she pounded on the wooden wall of the wagon. “And hot water for the flasks, Nicu!” she added to the listeners whose heartbeats Kain could detect through the wooden walls, and then shambled again around the vampire lord. "He'll be warmest under the covers, Sirah," she said, and set to easing the topmost quilt out from beneath the insensate boy.  

Kain snarled, but lifted Rahab cautiously once more, careful not to squeeze or grasp. The boy was quite warm against Kain’s skin -- cooler perhaps than Kain’s normal prey, but certainly not as chill as a hungry fledgling. “I do not require your admonitions--” Kain growled, placing the young mortal back down and permitting the woman to cover him over. He knew that humans tended to prefer being swaddled in fabric, though it seemed to him that was likely due to mortal modesty or fear of injury, parasites, or predation. Being covered did not keep a vampire warm... but on the other hand, only the newest fledglings wasted any significant amount of energy as body heat. Perhaps the woman’s words made a certain amount of sense. “--only your cooperation. Repair the boy, and I will depart with him this night -- and leave your band unscathed. Delay, and I shall find myself significantly less... charitable.”

“Aye, Sirah,” said the woman. Most creatures could sense fear, and she concealed hers the best she could by focusing on the boy. The child’s shivering gradually deepened, becoming a hard, wracking shudder. Chillghasts could drink down a man’s warmth until he was too weak even to shiver right; she had seen it before, so perhaps this was an improvement. And so much smaller was this boy... was his arm *broken*? Ghasts wouldn’t have done that. The woman levered herself down onto one knee, and folded open the top of her small chest. The wood was intricately carved, smoothed and darkened by the touch of many hands. It came open on old hinges, revealing dozens of paper or leather packets. The woman’s knobby fingers flicked through them, selecting some, returning others. “And if I do hurry, and he be too weak, he will be in similar trouble a league down the road. Then the curse you are like to leave behind will slay us just the same, Sirah, and you’ll still be no better off.” Comfrey and coughenbane, peppermint and ginger, if she had any left...

Kain arched a brow. He had much more potent devices at his disposal than mere curses. “Then apply a healing draught, woman, and be done with it.”

The matron stiffened a little. “Would that we had such draw with the Sarafan! Nay, Sirah, they’ve not deigned to gift or sell such tonics to such as we. And thieving them is impossible, these days.” She spat in the direction of the door. “Even so, rest and food and my herbs mend just the same.”

Eyes narrowed, Kain drew a fraction of a breath -- reluctantly, for the smell of the cramped wagon and crowded humanity was overpowering in this small space -- and tasted no particularly heightened scents beyond the usual, nor the bitter mealy scent of a lying mortal. With some reluctance, he stepped back so much as the walls of the wagon allowed, braided garlic and bundles of aromatic plants bumping against his back, to permit the woman room enough to work. He watched sharply as she performed a practiced series of actions -- placing her ear upon the boy’s chest, feeling along the sides of his jaw and the pits of his arms. When the leather flasks of hot water arrived, she poured a little into a crude wooden cup, along with some of the dried herbage. She wrapped each flask in a scrap of felt and tucked them close to the boy’s side, and then, after some few minutes, began spooning the warm water into the boy’s mouth.

The sound of the boy’s heartbeat gradually became stronger, a firmer and less thready pulse, and the intensity of his shivering reached a peak and then began to ease. Kain waited, watching, with a patience developed over centuries. His silence seemed to unnerve the woman, and after a time, she cleared her throat. Her fingertips rested on another packet. “Perhaps... the Sirah would favor a restorative draught as well?”

A trace breath served to identify the substance she lingered on -- opiates had a remarkably distinct, bitter scent. Kain weighed again the benefits and drawbacks of simply cutting a bloody swath through these mortals, and his laugh was a sinuous, dark thing. The incapacitation of just a handful of this band might serve a useful purpose. “I think, tsigane, that you should not offer to slake a thirst you do not understand.”

The door eased open, and the wafting breath of air smelled of cooked meat and root vegetables. “The stew, Baba Puridaia?” The boy was lanky, tall and thin, with tousled red hair and skin tanned dusky. He shifted nervously, from one foot to the other. Kain’s eyes narrowed.

The elderly woman’s fear was well-concealed, with only the slightest widening of the eyes, the barest shiver under those many layers of cloth to betray her reaction to Kain’s unsubtle threat. Well-hidden or not, however, the threat proved its worth--her gnarled fingers left the packet of opiates where it was, and instead she busied herself with receiving the newly-arrived food. “Good, good--set it there. Don’t hover about the doorway, boy--you’ll let in the damp.” With a brief sideways look at Kain, she took the covered pot from the boy, expertly blocking his curious gaze--and Kain’s as well. “Well? Go on, boy, before I thump some sense between those ears!” Shutting the door again, she shuffled back to the bed, setting the pot on a small nearby table. “Useless brat …”

A brief check on the boy swaddled on the bed, and she grunted in sour satisfaction. “We’ve chased some of the cold out of his bones, but he looks to be running a fever.” With another careful, sidelong look, she added, “Respectfully, Sirah, if you take him out into the cold again tonight, he’s not likely to survive. Sleep and hot food will do much better for him, along with such cures as I have.”

Kain arched a skeptical brow. The old woman obviously didn’t fear for her own safety, but for that of her band; she probably hoped to make herself too useful to kill.  Let the old mortal believe that her wing-dragging ploy had succeeded -- it mattered little to Kain.

“So it seems,” the vampire lord growled, looking down upon his fragile prize, tracing the shape of the boy beneath the coverings. “Tend to your charge, tzigane. I will bide my time.”

Less than half-aware of his surroundings, Rahab shivered beneath the furs.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Morning spread slowly among scraggly canyon trees, thin shafts of gold lighting autumn leaves, before Rahab awoke. He was warm, oddly. And he could smell food -- good food, something with meat and oil. His stomach rumbled, but not with the cold desperate need to which he had grown accustomed. It took him a few moments to focus his eyes, once he managed to crack them open -- and once he did, he rather wished he had not. 

The warlock sat upon a stool, less than a pace away, with an open tome across his knees. Rahab squeezed his eyes back shut. 

Several moments passed in silence. Then came the rustle of a turning page of vellum. 

Rahab was tempted to feign sleep even longer, to luxuriate in the warmth and softness of a real bed. Before, he had been cold … forever, it seemed. But further sleep proved elusive, and soon enough other needs began to demand attention. Not urgently, not yet, but soon. 

“...S-Sire?” he said tentatively, coughing a little as the tightness of his chest made itself evident. He opened his eyes again, turning his head to where the warlock sat. The man seemed to be no worse for the wear after his disappearance into the night, and now appeared to be ignoring him completely in favor of the leather-and-brass bound tome he held. How had he come to be here so swiftly? And what had happened to the--to Lord Wolf? 

When the warlock did not appear to be in any hurry to respond, Rahab decided to risk another question. “Where--where are we?”

The gaze that fixed his was as intent as the wolf’s, gleaming, a gold-flecked brown. Kain tilted his head, a small movement, and yet Rahab felt as if he were being thoroughly, coldly studied. “We are in the company of tinkers, boy, until you are sufficiently healed to travel. Are you?” 

The wooden room was smaller even than one of the inn’s rooms, with a door slightly ajar at one end. Bundles of plants and herbs hung from the ceiling, and the walls were lined with drawers and chests. The only space to move in was a narrow pathway. A ray of morning sunlight slanted over the much-scrubbed wooden floor. 

That narrow, cold expression seemed to indicate that the answer had better be ‘yes’, regardless of Rahab’s actual fitness. And so he nodded obediently, struggling to push himself up onto one elbow. “Y-yes, Sire, I th--” the word broke off into a harsh spasm of coughing that made his ribs ache. There was no way to hide the tremors that it caused, though self-preservation made him try regardless. “I--I’m sor--” Another spasm of coughing, and he curled on his side, wiping the back of a shaking hand against his mouth when it was done. The food nearby smelled delicious, and his stomach cramped--but he did not dare reach for it. Not without permission--who knows what the warlock might do to him, were he to steal the man’s breakfast? He had heard dark stories of such men, and there were far worse things in the world than a mere beating.

Unmoving, still as a coiled snake, Kain watched spasms wrack the mortal. “I suggest, boy, that you refrain from lying to me again.” That last was sharply bitten off. Kain watched the human’s eyes -- so blue, even in the dim light -- dart to the bowl of cold stew on the table, then back to Kain. 

“I trust you are, at least, capable of feeding yourself? Then do so; the food is untainted.” The vampire lord made no move to assist Rahab as the boy struggled to sit upright. Conscious of the press of time and Rahab’s short lifespan, Kain toyed for a moment with the notion of beginning the young mortal’s weapon training, perhaps with daggers. But the boy’s one good arm trembled badly, and Kain discarded the idea for the moment. How else could he make productive use of this forced inactivity? And for that matter -- “Tell me, boy. What training have you already undergone?” 

“T-training?” Given permission to eat, Rahab had to force himself not to snatch at the bowl, to gulp down the food before it could be taken away again. Harsh experience had taught him that an empty belly was likely to rebel against such abuse, and he couldn’t afford to waste his food--who knew when more might be given to him? Or what he might have to do to earn it? 

Pushing himself shakily upright, he took the bowl of cold stew, curling his hands around it protectively. “I--no training of any worth, Sire.” Who would have taken a worthless bastard and tavern whore as an apprentice? “All I know is small th-things.” He ducked his head, shamefaced, fighting back another bout of coughing. “Cleaning, sometimes, or giving messages. How … to please in bed.” And even that was probably an exaggeration; he had heard men talk of fabled courtesans in far-away places, of skills and beauty beyond compare. He was nothing like that. He had just been there to be used.

“But I can learn,” Rahab added hastily, looking up again. The warlock did not look happy at his answer, his mouth folding into a forbidding scowl. “I remember what I am told--I never forget. I never got a message wrong, no matter how long, or--or had to be taught something twice.”

The ancient vampire’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that so.” He studied the boy a moment, and then reached down and picked up a square board of sorts, which must have laid hidden by the shadows. Kain placed it and a stylus on the quilt beside Rahab’s folded legs. The board was simply a thin sheet of wood, about two handspans wide and long, covered in a layer of soft, smooth wax. The stylus was about two fingers thick, as long as his hand, and pointed on one end; it had once been polished to a high gloss but something sharp had scraped the finish badly. 

“Once you are finished eating, copy this line of glyphs --” Kain lifted the vellum tome that lay across his knees, and turned the open pages towards the boy, “-- onto the board.” The tip of one tapered, sharp-nailed finger indicated a vertical column of six curving letters, boldly drawn beside a complex diagram. Kain held the text steady, waiting until he was certain that the boy’s eyes had focused in the filtered light. Then he returned the book to his knees and turned the page, returning to his interrupted study. 

Those blue eyes widened, but Rahab made no protest. Instead he fell to his food with a will, eating slowly and carefully, but without stopping. The stew was heaven upon his tongue, even cold; no several-day old slop, no leftover leavings from another’s bowl, but fresh-made and filling, and most amazing of all--all for him. He could not remember the last time he had been given such bounty, and he made the most of it, eating until his belly felt tight and full and round, licking the spoon--and sometimes, the bowl--until it gleamed.

His stomach hurt a little when he was done--but it was a pleasant hurt, an overstuffed ache, not the queasy rumble brought on by spoiled food or eating too swiftly. Satisfied, he set the bowl on the table, the spoon neatly inside. Then, glancing hesitantly at his new master, Rahab reached for the board and stylus that had been left for him, awkwardly with one arm cased in a carefully-wrapped sling. 

It was immediately evident that he had never before touched a writing implement; he used the stylus much like one would use a stick to draw in the dirt, wrapping grubby fingers around one end and drawing clumsily with the other. The drawings themselves were awkward and wobbling things, and a far cry from the neat march of glyphs within the tome Rahab had been shown--but they were in the correct order, and line by painstaking line, Rahab recreated their shapes with exacting accuracy, biting his lip in concentration 

Once he was done, he held his work for a moment, as if loathe to let it go. Then, hesitantly, he extended it to Kain. “Like thus, Sire?” 

Kain glanced up as the board was proffered. One brow arched as he examined the whelp’s efforts. The lines looked like little more than bird scratchings, wavering and rough, jagged where they should be curved. Fingerprints marked the places where a line had gone overlong, and the boy had attempted to erase the marks. Still, every single glyph was undeniably correct. It was evidence of a better memory than Kain expected of vampires a century old. “Indeed. Your penmanship, however, requires a great deal of work. Write them again.” His eyes narrowed slightly as the boy paused and regarded the small space wax left unmarked; it took Kain a moment to divine the reason behind the hesitation. “Use the side of the stylus -- roll it over the wax with a flattened palm.” 

The stylus was notched and scraped -- it looked like some huge claws had gripped the wooden shaft. Rolling it over the wax, as a baker rolled out his bread, left the surface of the wax not entirely smooth, but eventually the boy succeeded in erasing his work. Then he started over.

The second and third repetitions likewise met with rejection. The fourth, Kain studied for a moment. The boy had continued to take his time, tracing each letter with great care and more patience than Kain usually noticed in humans, no matter the age. Still more interestingly, he had not introduced errors by repetition -- one of the main sources of often-fatal mistake in a young mage. The boy’s mental image of the glyphs was evidently just as sharp now as it had been at the beginning. “Better. Draw them again.”

Intent upon the tasks set before him, the knowledge that this warlock shared so freely, Rahab did not protest, nor think to question his good fortune. Instead he set himself to the symbols with a fervent will, tracing and retracing them, correcting himself with each repetition until he could draw the lines smoothly and--for the most part--cleanly.

The sixth tracing was... not entirely bad. “For now, this is acceptable,” Kain said. Reaching forward, he touched the sharp tip of a nail to the topmost glyph, careful not to jar the board from the mortal’s grasp. “And now boy, the meanings. Repeat the words. ‘Radiuus.’” 

Rahab looked at the glyph below that calloused fingertip, fixing it and the sound of the word within his memory. “R-radias,” he echoed. The warlock frowned at him, his mouth flattening into a thin line. 

“*Radiuus*,” he said again impatiently. “Use those ears of yours and *listen* to what I am saying, whelp.” 

Rahab ducked his head, abashed. But despite his displeasure, the warlock did not seem minded to reprimand Rahab with anything other than words. He hesitated, cringing in anticipation of a blow that never came--then repeated the word once more. “Radi-us.”

“Again. Longer on the final beat of the word.”

“Radius. Radi-us? Radiuus.” Rahab repeated the word over and over, finger lightly touching the glyph as he rolled the syllables over his tongue. Pictures that became sounds--they were every bit as wonderful as he had always dreamed!

“Enough.” The warlock’s glower had lightened slightly, perhaps. It was hard to be sure, Rahab decided, as his gaze darted to that hard-planed, aristocratic face. “Now the next. Ignus.”

“Ignus,” Rahab said obediently, his eager fascination only whetted by each new word. It seemed to get easier, the more he repeated them, learning their rhythms, the lilt of the unfamiliar sounds and the weight of their meaning. The warlock gave little quarter, snapping out word after word, until finally Rahab had learned the sounds for all six glyphs.

“Radius--no.” Rahab frowned to himself, touching each symbol in turn. “Radiuus, ignus, shira, proximos, escal, luminos--”

There was a sudden spark of light in the dimness of the wagon, a brief flare of fire--in the air? Rahab squeaked in surprise, jerking backwards--the writing-board flew in one direction, the blankets another, and his abortive retreat was cut short by the hard wooden wall of the wagon as it impacted the back of his head. He yelped--then covered his mouth frantically with both hands, watching the warlock with wide eyes. What was--who was--was writing supposed to *do* that?

“Hn.” Kain extended his palm under the spot in the air that had flashed, his eyes narrowed, fingers cupping, as if to fan the tiniest of flames. The spot gradually brightened to a warm glow, a little dimmer than the light of a candle, flickering fitfully. It drifted upwards in a haphazard way, to bump against the roof of the wagon like a lazy wasp. The yellow light made the warlock’s eyes seem to reflect gold. The corner of his mouth had twitched faintly upwards, perhaps also a trick of the light. “Not bad, for your first attempt. Lose the focus of any spell, however, and it will attenuate and die in short order.” He certainly hoped the whelp did not insist on flinching at the merest sight of magic. The boy’s head, he thought, could not long sustain the blunt impact trauma. 

Leaving the light to drift aimlessly, Kain picked up the board, brushed it off, then laid it again beside the boy. He tapped the edge of the board, drawing the boy’s wide eyes from the wholly unremarkable globe of light. The wax was blank, save for fingerprints and scratches, as if Rahab had never written on it. “This is the manner in which scrolls are infused with an incantation; they may be used but once each, for the glyphs vanish upon invocation. You have seen, or heard tell, of such items?” He waited until Rahab made a small motion that might have been a nod. “As you become more practiced, you will not need a written focus -- eventually, you may even grow beyond the need to speak the glyphs at all.” 

Kain paused a moment, regarding the silent, wide-eyed human. “The glyph-words you have learned are part of the most common tongue of magic. When invoked in proper order, they draw some small measure of strength from their speaker -- thus, you shall practice them only in my presence, and only for a short time each day. Do you understand? Good. Now -- “ Kain gestured, and the tiny light winked out overhead, “try it again.” 

Eagerly, Rahab did so, even as he did his best not to be distracted by the implications of the warlock’s tutelage. Did that mean … the man meant to take him as an apprentice? To learn magic, to have power, real power such as he had never had … he found himself suddenly wanting it like nothing else he had ever known. He still did not know why the warlock had plucked him from that inn, or what the man might demand in return for his teachings, but he decided that it did not matter. Not if he could learn such wondrous things!

Brow furrowed in fierce concentration, he set himself to the warlock’s lessoning with a will. It was not easy; he had no prior experience on which to draw, and the man was not a patient taskmaster, for all he did not exact retribution for Rahab’s mistakes in anything other than razor-tongued words. But all of that fell by the wayside when compared to the sheer joy of learning--of no longer staring uncomprehendingly at pictures and symbols that made no sense, but instead learning their value and their meaning. To watch light blossom out of nothingness at his command … there was, Rahab decided, nothing better in the whole world.

They proceeded thus for some time, until half a dozen little lights bumped fretfully against the ceiling, and the requirements of Rahab’s bladder could no longer be ignored. When he reluctantly admitted this to his teacher, the warlock snorted, but let him up, secreting the tome and their writing implements away in some hidden bag before ushering him roughly to the door. Rahab was momentarily blinded at the dazzle of sunlight as it was opened; blinking away tears, he stared at the oddly-dressed people that waited outside. Rough-bearded men and brightly-shawled women, caught in the midst of their daily chores, all paused to watch them with undisguised fear. Or rather--to watch the warlock, Rahab noticed. He hesitated on the stop of the wagon, shifting uncertainly as he clutched his purloined blanket tighter about his shoulders. 

Kain’s gaze scanned the crowd, but Rahab’s flinch drew his attention. The boy seemed too thin by far to bear the weight of the eyes upon him. Kain’s mouth tightened, but he pitched his voice low, for the mortal’s ears alone. “Straighten your spine, boy.” His words did not appear to particularly reassure the little human. Kain exhaled shortly. “You see the apprehension in them, do you not? Then the opportunity is yours. Uncertain men, like cowering curs, will leap to the control of a firm hand.” 

Kain stepped around the boy, down from the wagon step. His fluid movement drew eyes, attention, providing Rahab a moment in which to collect himself. “You there. Retrieve food and drink. You, escort the boy to your latrines and immediately back; I shall know if you stray. The rest of you --” Kain’s gaze swept the crowd, heavy, piercing, “-- may return to your duties.” 

The young man and woman upon whom Kain had fixed his orders swallowed hard; neither protested. The woman came closer, her every movement bespeaking uncertainty. Most of the other tinker folk -- gypsies, Rahab supposed -- began hesitantly to return to their activities, although conversations were hushed and whispering. 

Rahab, daring, raised his eyes to the warlock’s grim visage. He’d never seen the man in full daylight, and now the pale, aristocratic features seemed especially forbidding. The warlock was not so old as Rahab had thought before, despite the man’s long mane of ashen hair. Indeed, the warlock’s age, whatever it was, had not stooped him at all, for he was taller than any of the men here by a full hand, and far more heavily built besides -- or, no. He was strong, yes, but it was the strength of the soldiers Rahab had sometimes seen or been ordered to bed. Lean, pointed, controlled: not the crushing bulk of a brawler. Why did he seem so imposing, then? Was it the straightness of back, the angle of his jaw, the way he held his weight just slightly forward? 

Self-consciously, Rahab tried to adjust the way he stood, tried to straighten his narrow shoulders under the blanket -- so much as he could with one arm still wrapped in a sling, anyway. The white metal coin on its thong felt heavier against his chest when he stood like this, a solid, warm reminder of its promise. Doing his best to mimic the air of authority that the warlock wore so easily, Rahab nodded and climbed awkwardly down from the wagon himself, without waiting for the woman’s assistance.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Rahab thought he caught a flash, just a glimpse, of something like approval in the warlock’s calculating gaze.

\----

 

The two days following were the happiest -- and the strangest -- of Rahab’s entire existence, so far back as he could remember. To begin with, he spent great spans of time asleep, six hours at a time or more, with no heavy hand rousing him to attend to man or beast or endless mounds of dirty dishes. 

Sometimes the wagon swayed and creaked with movement when he awoke, drawn along a rough forest road by one of the tinkers’ great draught-beasts. Several times a day, there was food -- hot porridge with long grains of rice and sweet slivers of dried fruits, fresh meat stewed together with marrow bones and such vegetables as grew rampant in the wilds, nutmeats already cracked and parceled together with some sticky golden liqueur that caused Rahab to lick the paper clean, rough and satisfying bread concealing a nugget of oily pork at the center and baked among coals so that the shroud of black ash had to be brushed away. Rahab ate all those things and more besides, and not just once, either! He tried to keep the memories sharp, recalling the tastes of each kind of food before he slept. With memories such as these to draw upon, Rahab thought, a boy couldn’t ever really go hungry, could he?

Sometimes Rahab left the wagon for a short time, to walk beside the slow-moving contraption, or to bathe as he was directed when the tinkers laid camp for the night and warmed the water for him until it steamed. But always, always… there was the warlock. At most, he waited just out of sight, but never stood very far away. 

And always, the warlock held himself aloof, as if far removed from the petty concerns of the tinkers around him, from the scurry to make or break camp, from daily chores and the preparing of food. Rahab had never even seen his mysterious benefactor eat, though surely he must do so--out of sight, perhaps, too noble to lower himself to break bread with the common folk that scurried to do his bidding? Not that Rahab was any different: he jumped at every abrupt order, every impatient lesson. He did not want to give the warlock any reason to regret his previous generosity, or to end their lessons. 

And if sometimes, deep within the secret depths of his heart, Rahab wished he could remain with the tinkers, pretend he belonged with them, to haul water and chop wood, to sing songs and travel--well, that wish was outweighed by the allure of magic, of the knowledge of writing, the scratched lines that, one by one, gained meaning and weight, that invoked power like he’d never seen. He found himself just as hungry for them as he was for food. Surely, surely … if he learned enough, perhaps he could be like the warlock someday? If he even held a fraction of that power, he would never have to cringe, never have to beg and grovel for mercy, for them to stop--

Rahab shook the thought away, a shiver wracking too-thin limbs. He wrapped his patchwork cloak-- a gift from the mistress of the green wagon with the yellow trim: perhaps because her children had outgrown the fabric, or perhaps because she wished to curry some measure of favor -- closer about himself. Hope was a luxury such as he could ill afford, no matter the warlock’s promises. Trembling fingers reached up, touched the coin at his throat. The warlock had said it carried his likeness, that he would be … a king? Such a thing seemed as far away as the moon, and just as impossible to grasp.

The wagon jolted over deep-carved ruts in the crude road, and Rahab winced. He should go in, Rahab thought, rubbing his good hand across his rough corduroy breeches. The stolen breeches were still strange to him, even after these past days, but they kept the chill of the wood and metal wagon steps from his skin. Perhaps the warlock would bid him sleep, or perhaps demand that he summon a ball of flickering light again, or work the magic to form a tiny shard of ice in the palm of his hand. Maybe the lessoning would involve mundane lettering, the ones that marked sounds or phrases but invoked no magic. Or perhaps the warlock would direct Rahab to speak of the things the boy had seen over the past day. Those lessons were strange ones, as the Lord interrupted to correct Rahab’s spoken words or demand that he think more deeply on an observation. Rahab had yet to get any of his answers quite right, to judge by the pale man’s expression.

Rahab lifted his eyes to the sky, where the clouds were tinted gold and rose, the sun withdrawing ahead of them. It would not be long until dusk; if the tinkers followed their usual pattern, they would break for camp soon. And then there would be food again, most probably -- maybe venison from the deer draped over the flank of Giovanni’s horse, or from the packs of the slain traveler whose corpse Mihai had discovered along the roadway. But from the talk of the tinkers, Rahab guessed that they were close to a town now, and so perhaps they would not stop at all but rather seek the safety of high stone walls. 

Rahab shivered again, harder. The first stars, sharp as sparks, were just beginning to appear. Above the swell of the mountains, he thought he could just see the first glimmer of the moon, beyond dark flocks of settling birds. And closer still--Rahab sucked in a breath, eyes wide. 

Closer still, just ghosting over a tall stand of pines they had passed but an hour before -- was something far larger than any bird. A dragon? But no, there was no long tail, no reptilian look to the silhouette. Just broad, outstretched wings, black against the golden dusk, carrying aloft a creature like he had never seen. It circled, drifting upon the currents of the air, as easily as the hawks and eagles. A group of the dark birds followed in its wake, and Rahab thought for a moment that the ravens must be harrying a roc or some other great beast… but they did not seem to dive upon or peck at it. 

The wagon jounced again, and Rahab scrambled to his feet. “S-sire?” he called softly, lifting a hand to tap at the door. Behind him, one of the tzigane watch-riders cried out in terror, raising an alarm that rang from voice to voice down the length of the caravan. The shouted word struck chills all up Rahab’s spine.

 _Monster!_

The thin wooden door jerked open before Rahab’s knuckles could even graze it. The wagon jolted as the driver shouted and whipped at the shieldback draught-beast, but Rahab’s warlock kept his balance with consummate precision. In sudden flare of hastily-lit torches, the pale man’s eyes seemed as feral gold as Lord Wolf’s.

The illusion was swiftly dispelled as the warlock glanced down to him, but even still, Rahab’s heart hammered. “Your belongings are already gathered,” the pale man said, turning his unsettling gaze back to the skies. He seemed fiercer still, somehow, predator-intent. Then the corner of his mouth twisted, the merest flex of muscle, an expression that Rahab had come to believe signified amusement of some darksome kind. “Come, Rahab,” the warlock said, and stepped past the boy and down, onto the roadway.

Rahab sucked in a harsh breath, eyes wide. What was--did the warlock mean him to, to -- but it seemed that he *did,* and now the road was moving even faster under the wagon’s large wheels. Gasping, Rahab stumbled from the steps. He tripped over the hem of his patchwork cloak, the snag of his heel yanking the thin fabric off his shoulders. The stitching slipped between Rahab’s fingers, and for an instant the thought seemed to spring upon him: he could stay. Could carry wood with boys or chase the dogs like they did, could sing or take the stage with the actors, could ride with the woman in the green wagon… 

Thundering hooves bore down upon him, and Rahab flung himself aside from the onrushing rider, his cloak left to the dust under trampling beasts and steel-cased wheels. Shivering despite his panic, he scrambled for the edge of the road, clear of rolling-eyed beasts and frightened men, desperate lest he fall and suffer the same fate. He reached that meager place of safety, and nearly collided with the warlock. He looked up, panting.

The pale man’s gaze glimmered just a little more than seemed natural. He seemed not in the smallest part startled by either Rahab’s momentary delay, or his sudden appearance. “What do you see, boy?” the warlock demanded, looking upon the roadway that had, just moments before, been such an orderly, carefree procession.

Rahab hugged his good arm around himself, stifling a grinding cough. Clouds of dust billowed up until the torches seemed like will-o-wisps rushing away, like a dream to lead the unwary astray. 

And in that clamour, Rahab thought. He thought about the things the warlock had told him, the things he’d seen, the questions that Rahab hadn’t yet gotten quite right. “They… they cower too, Sire,” he said at last, quietly. Cringing, quick to flee, focused only upon surviving the next few moments -- just like Rahab had done, had been. 

Looking up at the pale warlock, Rahab thought that maybe, maybe he wouldn’t have to be like that, not forever. 

“Hn,” the warlock said, and Rahab jerked in surprise as a weight settled over his shoulders -- the red cloak marked with a bold black design, stark as blood. To be perfectly honest, it was not much warmer than the thin patchwork scrap of fabric - or perhaps the evening was simply growing colder. But the red cloak was thick and heavy, and Rahab tangled his fingers in the dense red felt, drawing it closer around him. The last of the wagons was gone, now, swallowed up by the darkening road. “So they do, whelp.” The warlock studied Rahab for a moment, then gestured. “Come.” 

And Rahab followed, picking his way over the ruts and broken cobblestones behind the warlock. Without the lights of the tinker caravan, the road grew darker by the moment... 

...and overhead, the searching shadows swept ever closer.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very big thanks to everyone who's left kudos! It's inspirational to know that you're enjoying this. Thank you, thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

Rahab picked his way over ruts and ditches behind the warlock, unable to prevent himself from nervously glancing back up at the darkening sky. Were they being followed? What was that creature, anyway? He did not question his benefactor, but--surely a man and a boy walking alone in the twilight were far easier prey to lurking predators than a loud, brightly lit and well-defended caravan? Or was the warlock hoping the clamor of the caravan's flight would disguise their progress? 

At least they were keeping to the road. Rahab eyed the thick-tangled woods to either side with trepidation, and hoped fervently that the warlock did not plan on striking off into them. Harsh experience told him that there would be no way for him to keep pace, if they did--not without Lord Wolf’s assistance, assuming the warlock even felt inclined to summon the great beast. 

Kain, for his part, did his best to tamp down his irritation at boy’s slow progress, his very evident weakness. It wasn’t for lack of the boy’s effort; the wheezing quality of Rahab’s panted breaths was evidence enough of how much effort the boy was exerting to keep up. Even a trained human soldier could not begin to match a vampire for speed or stamina, however, especially under cover of darkness. An underfed and under-developed human boy stood no chance at all of matching Kain for any length of time. They could obtain horses, but anything phlegmatic enough to accept a disguised vampire without spooking was unlikely to help. No, striking out for Coorhagen alone was no good plan, not yet. And, as the Ancient's attention proved, seeking temporary shelter would not avail Kain.

The Ancient, however, figured prominently in the histories Kain had studied. And while those same tomes held no end of rumor and myth, they seemed to hint at a markedly peaceable creature -- at least, by vampire standards. Certainly, the Ancient’s cautious approach, as well as the solicitous attendance of the ravens, seemed to support such a theory. The beat of great wings against the air sounded like measured breathing. Janos’ flight was not nearly as silent as R--as one might suppose. Ironic, that: the wingbeats of a vampire sounded more like those of an eagle or a roc than the silence of an owl. 

Still--Kain slanted a sidelong look at the struggling boy at his side. Janos’s appearance, while strange, was somewhat less monstrous than Vorador’s or Kain’s own. If the boy could be glamoured not to object, and if Janos could be trusted not to murder or maim the whelp…. Kain tracked Janos’s progress, considering his options. 

Along both sides of the road, ravens were landing now, one after another, blackening the branches with hunched wings. They uttered no sound, silent save for the shush of their feathers and tap of their talons against wood. The beady and unblinking glare of their many eyes made them unsubtle spies for a canny old snake like Vorador. Perhaps that was the point, though if Vorador believed that Kain would be cautioned by the knowledge that Vorador was aware of him, then the old goblin was very much mistaken. Janos had spotted them, and now carved a slow arc overhead, out of easy arrow shot, albeit close enough to take the measure of Kain’s dark, lightning-shot aura. 

Kain came to a wider place in the road, clear of overhanging branches. Lit by the rising moon and the last dying rays of sunlight, he halted there, ignoring the heat of the boy crowding close behind his leg. 

“What is it?” the whelp said anxiously, peering blindly around at the woods, clutching Kain’s cape about himself. 

Kain tilted his head back. “Are you to circle us all night, Janos, like some great bat?” He called up to the shadow in the sky, his voice pitched to carry. “Or are you going to come down, so that we may settle the matter of one another’s intentions face to face?”

There was the barest hesitation in those distant wingbeats. The ravens in the trees did not so much as blink, eyes fixed unerringly upon the Kain and his prize. Kain waited. Janos was apparently a cautious creature. But Kain suspected that he was also intelligent--and in any case, the presence of a second Balance Guardian in the world was something that the Ancient could not afford to ignore. 

Wide dark wings struck against the evening air, sweeping powerfully forward and back. The Ancient came to a muscular hover, some ten measures above the ground. “I believe you have the better of me,” said Janos, and Kain was struck by the tone: still accented, even after so many years of speaking common human tongues. And the consonants were slightly rounded, as if the eldest vampire’s mouth was yet a little too narrow to house the eyeteeth his hunger had gifted him. The attribute was common in fledglings; never in evolved elders. 

“More than you realize,” Kain arched a sculpted brow. “I am entwined with the destiny of your charge.”

From the stutter of wingbeats, *that* piqued the Ancient’s curiosity. In a flurry of black feathers, Janos came to earth, landing gracefully, though his quickened breaths betrayed the effort that involved. _Breathed,_ and there was another oddity, for what vampire still required breath? 

Around them, the ravens croaked unhappily as Janos touched down, and the boy sidled a little farther behind Kain’s leg, casting uneasy glances to the thick forest around them. The Ancient shook his head. “You know of-- but how could you--who are you?”

Ah, a chancy question indeed, depending on how far the Ancients’ tools of prognostication went. Yet cowering from one’s own name was a fool’s game. “I am Kain,” said the vampire lord simply. 

But the Ancient’s visage remained the same, and his aura -- ozone sharp, yet considerably less weighty than Kain’s -- betrayed no further shock. Or worse, betrayal: for the Ancients revered the Reaver, but did they know its nature? “I find that answers little,” Janos said quietly, folding his hands -- three-fingered at least, Kain noted -- into the sleeves of his loose robe. “For I know the eldest of Vorador’s progeny, and none--”

A dark rumble of amusement built in Kain’s chest. How long had it been, since he was mistaken for one of that ragged band? “I am none of Vorador’s get, as he has doubtless told you already.” The birds around them shuffled uneasily. 

“And yet it appears that you are not unlike him,” Janos said, expression stiff, and nodded at the waif who sheltered in Kain’s shadow. 

It took Kain a moment to piece the meaning together, and still another moment to tamp down the outrage at being accused of sharing Vorador’s tastes. Similar proclivities, perhaps. Excesses in scale, certainly not. “I do not intend to devour the boy, Janos, and make no mistake: I will oppose any who do. I seek a haven for him, nothing more.”

Janos’ brows drew together, and he stepped forward -- only to halt as a raven took to the air. The thing landed between the two vampires a little awkwardly, moving more like a marionette than a bird, albeit one expertly puppeted. Beady eyes like pebbles of jet glared at Kain. _Rubbish,_ came the sudden Whisper, reverberating and strange, as if echoed through half a thousand fragmented minds. _You claim to be here for a human waif? A scrap of meat so small, a cock would split it lengthwise?_ The raven gave a croak of derision, apparently ignoring Janos’ look of stern reproof. _Perhaps I will spirit away your plaything, and then we will see what your claim truly mea--_

 _Vorador, do not--_ Janos frowned, wings drooping slightly in dismay.

Kain’s snarl exposed his teeth. _You would do well to avoid my displeasure, lest I carve through your herd and house and leave your manse a smoking ruin._ Kain was too experienced to let his assumed form slip, but beneath it, his aura flared, deep and dark and redolent of ozone, of old blood and stone. _I am not here for you, or for Janos. My concerns are far wider in scope; interfere, and I will ensure that you live long enough to see everything you have built brought low._

The raven’s feathers fluffed jaggedly. _I’ll not stand to be threatened by a--!_

Kain ignored the sending and the messenger both, turning a level gaze to Janos. “Our aim is Coorhagen, where sanctuary might be found for the whelp.” A lie, but one close enough to the truth that Kain doubted Janos would be able to discern one from the other. “Is that assurance enough for you?”

“Coorhagen?” Janos folded his wings neatly, his gold-gleaming eyes dropping once more to the boy. Rahab shifted a little further into Kain’s shadow, fingers tightening on the scarlet fabric wrapped about his thin shoulders. “Coorhagen is no fit sanctuary for any human, much less one that you value. Have you not heard?”

Kain’s frown deepened. “Heard what?”

“Plague has fallen upon Coorhagen,” Janos replied, wings ruffled in distaste. He spread taloned, three-fingered hands outward, as if to demonstrate how helpless any of them were to stop such a thing. “Even now, the dead lie in the streets. Even the dogs and cattle are tainted, or so they say--any creature that enters Coorhagen risks death. There is no sanctuary there; not even for creatures such as ourselves.”

And if vampires would be hard-pressed to survive, then a starved human orphan stood no chance at all. Damnation. Kain should have known: nothing else on this entire misadventure had gone according to plan. Why would this be any different? Trust Coorhagen to have one of its periodic outbreaks of disease and famine at the most inconvenient of times. If the city followed its historic course, the disease would flame itself out soon enough, and within a few years the city would be once again become the trade center of the north… but that did not help Kain now. “What of Avernus?” Kain demanded, misliking the necessity of depending on another’s eyes.

 _Oh yes, seek the shelter of those high walls--_ Vorador started, a smirk audible even through the fractured Whisper.

Janos shook his head. “A dangerous place, and one well-patrolled by Sarafan. Do you know--”

Kain lifted a hand in a sharp gesture. _Yes, I know of them. For the present, I would have the boy remain unaware of the enmity they bear such as you or I._

Janos nodded graciously, curious golden gaze falling to the thin body behind Kain’s leg. “I... see. Tell me, child, what is your name?”

The raven gave a derisive croak. _Janos, do not--_

Rahab looked between Janos and his warlock. When the latter only regarded him, however, the boy cleared his throat. “Rahab, if it please you Ser,” he said, and then bit at his lip. “Are… are you an angel?”

Kain arched a brow. That was something, at least. Perhaps he would not have to glamour away the boy’s fears, after all. 

“Once, we were called something of the sort,” said Janos quietly, gently. He blinked, and then looked to Kain. “Until you find a place that suits your requirements, travelers, I would open my own sanctuary to--”

 _Outrageous!_ Vorador’s angry sending bled over minds. _Janos! You cannot mean to--_

 _I WILL do this, Vorador._ That resonant, calm voice suddenly took on a new and uncompromising authority. Kain blinked, surprised--perhaps this slender, feathered creature was more vampire than it seemed. Janos continued aloud, apparently for the whelp’s benefit. “You both are welcome in my sanctuary for a time; long enough, at least, to see both of you mended and well-rested. However, it is some little distance from here, and it is--difficult to reach by foot.” He bent a considering golden gaze upon them both. “I can carry the boy, if you and he will permit it. But your weight ...” 

“Do not concern yourself. I have other means at my disposal,” Kain snapped, nettled at the thought of being carried off like some over-large prey in Janos’ talons. 

This was Janos--vampire more in name than in action, if Kain were any judge, and a far different creature than Vorador or himself. Kain could not spot any deceit in those words, nor scent any hunger from the other vampire; Janos appeared to be well fed. And their other options were far less tenable. Kain had no sanctuaries of his own in this time, other than those his nobleman’s guise might afford, or the hidden blood-fountains in which he might rest. The former was difficult to maintain for long periods of time, and the latter--well, the latter was no place for a human. Not unless the human was prey.

But then, the legacy of Janos’ single progeny… spoke for itself. And Kain knew his own kind all too well. “We will accept your offer,” Kain finally decided. Vorador’s Whispered snarl of fury gave Kain more than a little satisfaction. The flock of ravens launched into the air, wheeling up into the night sky, cawing in angry agitation. “Be warned, however. If you should think to betray me, or harm the boy, your vaunted immortality will not save you from my vengeance.”

Janos lifted black taloned hands, palms outward in a conciliatory gesture. “Be at peace. Should I have wished to do either, I would not have invited you to my Retreat.”

A small shuffle of feet brought their attention back down to the boy, who was now peeping out from Kain’s shadow, eyes wide at the display of the ‘angel’s’ claws. “S-sire?” he whispered. “Do--do you mean to let him take me?” It was easy to tell that Rahab was not at all certain whether he should be afraid or exhilarated by the prospect.

Kain arched a brow at the creature’s presumption. “I do not.” He looked to Janos. _I have read that you possess some skill in magery. If this be true, then there is a teleport sorcery, the use of which requires--_

The corner of Janos’ mouth drew up. _You have read that, have you? It is heartening to know that some tome exists which speaks aught but ill of me. Yes, I know the spell. These are the coordinates to my balcony._

Kain examined the twined chains of glyphs that Janos offered. They matched closely with another teleportation endpoint that Kain had placed in his own era -- an endpoint that he dared not use in this one, lest he materialize Rahab into a tree or worse -- although the elevation was considerably higher. Curse and damnation. He could have prepared for this, brought some manner of enchanted flying device… but who could have dreamt that he’d be caught in such a damnable conundrum?

Biting back a snarl, Kain Marked his place on the roadside, then placed a hand over the boy’s head. “Remain here. I shall return momentarily,” he instructed, and then invoked a protective bubble to surround the boy, feeding the power from the verdant lines of the balance that flowed around them. 

It had been a very long time since he’d bothered to cast this spell, let alone to reinforce it so. The bell-shaped ward was thick-walled, crackling faintly blue in the cold air. Rahab shivered, looked like he might bolt, but seemed to recall his warlock’s words -- Kain’s words -- at the last instant. He nodded bravely… but there was a flash of light and then the warlock was gone, and through the shimmering curtain, Rahab could not see where! 

“Easy, child,” the angel spoke, lifting a hand in caution. “It would not do to run into such a ward as that.”

“What, where--” 

“Most likely, he has gone to ensure that my home is safe for thee,” the angel said, and there was something intensely soothing about his manner, something deeply calm. “It seems he holds you in high regard indeed. Tell me, child, where did you meet such a… man?”

Rahab dropped his hand from the ward, tugged his cloak tighter around him instead. “I…” He felt so tranquil, all of a sudden… but he did not know how much his warlock would want him to say, and that -- Rahab shook his head, trying to clear it.

“No matter, child.” That odd pressure eased, faded, like a blanket gently drawn away, leaving Rahab once more bare to the fear and the cold. He found he preferred it, for all that it made his heart hammer. The angel smiled, a little wryly. “I do believe I might have some books in my library that could interest you.”

“Books?” Rahab’s eyes went wide, the fear forgotten. 

That strange light flashed just then, and Rahab’s warlock burst into existence, just appeared from nothing. Rahab ‘eeped!’, then covered his mouth before any more astonishment could escape. The strange blue bubble around him vanished just as suddenly as the warlock had appeared, and Rahab darted a quick glance up. The warlock studied him, intent and narrow-eyed.

Rahab nodded, trying to convey the impression that he was alright, unharmed. Could what the angel said be true? Did the Sire hold him in some unfathomable regard? It seemed… preposterous, beyond reason. And yet… the coin was still a warm weight on his breast. 

“You may find a room that suits your requirements on the sixth floor of the rotunda,” the angel was saying, as serene as if his hospitality were questioned every day. “I will collect certain supplies, and join you shortly.” The angel turned a gentle smile on Rahab.... just as the boy's belly voiced its protest of the delayed dinner. "A meal and a good night's sleep would do you well, I think."

The warlock -- Kain -- lowered a hand to him, and for a moment Rahab did not understand. Slowly, hesitant, he reached up… and slipped his cold fingers into that powerful grasp. The warlock’s hand felt like clay, colder than even his own, each digit unnaturally perfect, smooth save for where the callouses mapped a strange constellation under his hand. Rahab swallowed.

And then everything fell apart around him.

It was over in an instant, too fast to follow -- but for an instant, it felt as if he were sundered painlessly into ribbons, into flakes like stars, lurching sideways through a veil he could not see. Colors spun sickeningly, burning and tumbling, everything lost…

The world coalesced, folding itself into solidity once more. Rahab’s knees folded, and he fell onto smooth flagstones, trying to quell his rioting stomach. His arm jolted painfully. His fingers and toes tingled something fierce -- fisting his good hand in the thick felt of the long red cloak, Rahab dared to crack his eyes open. 

Kain was crouched in front of him, so quietly that he hadn’t even heard the man move, expression inscrutable. But beyond the warlock… 

It was… it must be a pair of doors, he thought wildly, although the archway was taller than three men, made all with blocks of stone as large as Rahab himself. Some of the stones had been… had been carved, as if they were wood or something soft, into intricate snarling beasts and winged angels. The huge doors stood ajar, and each seemed like they belonged on a castle or some great manor, with fine patterns worked into the copper cladding to make them seem feathered. Two golden sconces lit the archway, but they held no torches, rather globes of light that seemed to burn on nothing at all. Were they like the small lights Rahab had conjured? But they did not flicker, as his did. How had the warlock summoned them here, much less this strange entrance? Head swimming, Rahab tried to scoot back for a better view of this strange development, blinking to clear his vision--

“Have a care, whelp. The Ancients hold little regard for such niceties as railings.” 

Rahab chanced a glance to where the warlock nodded -- and froze. Just a few handspans behind him, the stones dropped away, down and down, so far that the treetops were just rustling sprigs as tiny as if the pines and spruces had been transformed into weeds below. 

Something seemed to take over, sheer survival instinct driving him scrambling away from the perilous ledge, and Rahab yelped as his back met the warlock’s unyielding kneecap. “Wh--whaa--” But the trees went on and on, a ruddy undulating sweep of them rising up to peaks such as he had never seen, spired and streaked with snow. Between the trees were scattered -- jewels? No, lakes perhaps? They pooled in shining violet and orange, like sequins, or as if they’d been set on fire by the fading light. 

Rahab refrained from clutching at the warlock’s leg with an effort of will. Encouraged perhaps, on some level, by his success, he tried to slant his scurrying thoughts into some semblance of order, some likeness of logical progression. His mouth opened and closed. “How -- wha--” He tried again. “W-- why is the sun just setting?” was what somehow popped out. Rahab stuffed his fist over his mouth to stopper up any more absurd questions.

Kain rumbled, a vibrating kind of sound so thoroughly profound that Rahab could feel it. He hadn’t known that people could make a sound like that. 

“So you start with that, do you.” Rahab thought the warlock sounded… amused? He could not tear his gaze from the blanket of trees, the vast empty space that seemed to ring with a kind of nothing, a void beyond any measure. He’d seen over things -- over buildings and fields -- before, once or twice, when he’d been sent with new shingles to the men working atop the inn’s barn. But never like this. Nothing like this. 

The warlock straightened and stood, glancing over the incredible vista with the indifferent air of one who had seen it a thousand times. “There will be time enough for your questions later. Come.”

“I--” Despite the drop, Rahab wanted to stay. To see the land, the forest and the shimmering lakes from the vantage-point of a bird … it was terrifying, and beautiful beyond anything he had dreamed. The wind, however, was cold; as if in reminder, a frigid gust cut through the thick material of the warlock’s cape, and Rahab shivered. “...y-yes, milord.” Awkwardly, using his good hand, he pushed himself to his feet. 

The warlock turned, heading past those fantastical doors with no sign that he cared he trespassed into another’s domain. Rahab stumbled after, cloak clutched close--then had to stop and gape once more. For the interior--was even more amazing than the doors. Golden lights glowed, illuminating marble pillars and vaulted archways. Vast expanses of perfectly smooth stone flooring was silken smooth beneath his feet, polished to a shine, and pictures made of tiny stones spread over the walls, their colors like nothing Rahab had ever seen. The windows were filled with painted glass. Even the village church had not been so beautiful.

Perhaps he had died. That seemed the only possible explanation.

Rahab hurried to catch up, and they continued on, descending down endless stairs, across balconies without railings. But of course, a winged creature hardly needed them, did he? Already tired, Rahab was stumbling and thoroughly chilled by the time the warlock stopped. Could the dead even become dizzy like this?

“This one, I think,” the warlock said, pushing back an arily-carved wooden door to survey the chamber beyond. “I trust even you will have difficulty injuring yourself further here.”

In the middle of the act of nodding, Rahab froze. For as he’d stepped forward, the light inside brightened, emanating from another of the strange golden orbs fixed at what might have been a strange, very long hearth. But it seemed impossible that a fire could ever be set within, for it lacked a visible chimney, and was made all of white marble like an altar. There were more things, drawers of some kind and tables and stools, all made of a such a pale and delicately-carved wood that it did not seem they could support their own weight. The space was as large as the inn’s entire ground floor. Fabric hung on the walls, and on it were patterned fantastic shapes in every color of blue that Rahab could imagine, made to look somehow like snail shells, except that the shells were flat like his palm, and what were these strange fixtures of flowing water, and -- 

\-- and there was a… a bed, such as he had never seen before, round and draped with pelts as white as clouds, looking equally soft. The tiredness seemed to leave Rahab’s legs, for they carried him forward without thinking, until his feet found more softness -- a rug made all of felted wool? But it was large enough to make a shirt for every man in the village, and surely not even a dye trader had ever seen a green such as this, with so many colors contained inside it, the heavy fabric seemed to ripple. 

“The door is well-warded.” 

Rahab turned, almost too fast. His warlock -- Kain -- placed a loaf of the tinkers’ rough brown bread on the long sideboard table nearest the entrance. More magic? The warlock fixed him in place with a look that seemed to pierce through like a spear. “Do not leave before I come to retrieve you. Sleep here, and eat.”

“B-but you, Sire?” Rahab managed, greatly daring, as the warlock turned to leave.

The warlock glanced back, mouth set in its customary grim line. “I,” said Kain, “shall deal with Janos.”

 

\------


	6. Chapter 6

Midnight found Kain deep in thought, beneath the cold, wheeling stars. 

It had taken some time to scout the entirety of the citadel, always alert for the slightest hint from the alarm coin that hung about the boy’s neck. Kain prowled the entire structure, from the flame reaver’s chapel down to the grand entrance halls, marking well the position of secret passages and rooms, and the presence of glyph-wards. All of the latter were presently inactive, and did not bar his exploration -- but in the event that a troop of vampire hunters managed to cross the frigid lake, he imagined they would be in for quite the nasty surprise. A massive, ornate cask in the chapel was most well-warded of all, and from within, the blood Reaver crooned a mindless siren call. Still, considered altogether, the defenses were not a tenth so much as would have been placed in one of Kain’s own strongholds -- let alone one that contained the Reaver. 

In general, the tower was arrayed like stacked wheels, with chambers shaped like wedges and all opening onto a great central shaft, filled with warm and rising air, by which the winged could move between. Some levels in the structure were accessible only by air, more inconvenience than impediment to Kain. The spells were layered thickly throughout, and those took some time to discern fully -- simple housekeeping and warming weavings, for the most part, although so many of them it was a wonder the Ancient had magic left for other purposes. There was far more water than Kain liked, mainly small fountains and reflecting pools, but those would be no danger to the boy in his current state.

Several rooms, however, held basins of something that seemed like blood. In any vampire’s citadel, such basins would have been prominently displayed as proof of a clan’s well-domesticated herd, but these were tucked away, and none were on a level that the boy might access by foot. The ruddy liquid within was strange: very thin and bland to the taste, but not entirely undrinkable. 

When at last Kain satisfied himself as to the absence of both inhabitants and malignant spellworks, and that his wards around the boy remained strong, he stalked to the landing balcony. There, Kain stood in stony stillness, considering.

For decades, Kain’s every moment had been devoted to the journey to be undertaken, the acts which must be done, the balance of the ages. And now?

Now, somewhere across the great sweep of the continent, Raziel lived, drew breath - and he was likely little older than the boy Kain had collected. And what was Kain to do with that boy? The fates seemed to conspire against him, laying down plague and meddling vampires alike, turning over one ill-omened card after another. There was no convenient enemy to be slain, no divinations to hint at the correct path. 

The beat of dark wings was the only herald of Janos’ approach, steady and unhurried. Kain tilted his head, gauging the elder vampire’s direction. Either Janos had ensured his teleport was set to different endpoint than the one Kain had used, or he had flown all the way here--which, given that distance spanned a good portion of Nosgoth and at least one mountain range, seemed unlikely. 

No, Janos was no fool, if embarrassingly soft-hearted. No doubt he had decided upon a more cautious approach. A sensible decision; two elder vampires were wise to tread warily in their dealings with one another; at least until their relative power had been gauged, and the order of precedence established. 

The first glimmer of white clothing came into view--the only mark betraying Janos’ approach, his ebon wings and azure skin almost invisible against the night sky. He made good time; within moments he was over the Retreat. A brief circle, and Janos descended to the balcony where Kain awaited, making a surprisingly awkward landing, clawed feet thumping heavily to polished stone. Which most likely had something to do with the overly large, awkward bundle in his arms … and was that a gourd of some kind on top? Kain eyed it and Janos with equal suspicion. Apparently the other elder had taken his self-appointed duty to obtain food for the whelp seriously. 

Janos inclined his head, managing to give the impression that the gesture would have been a regal bow, but for the bundle. He smelled faintly of the smoke of human habitations, and the turned earth of wet fields. “Greetings, Kain. I trust the night finds you and your charge well.”

Kain bristled. “The boy’s condition is of no concern to you,” he growled, testing at the edges of the blue-skinned vampire’s aura of power. That nimbus was as strange now as it had been earlier -- powerful, yes, but held close, and lacking the dark redolence of millennia of old blood. Kain could only guess at what that portended. 

But Janos was already making his way unconcernedly inside, finding a long table on which to place his burden. The aura of his power, ozone and cinnamon, did not flare against Kain’s heavier nimbus, but neither did it shrink back. Curious. “I noticed he was unshod,” said Janos, unfolding the blanket that wrapped his bundle, and taking up a pair of child-sized, fleece-lined soft boots from within. He offered the same to Kain. “Might these fit him?”

Kain began to seriously contemplate the possibility that the passage of ages had driven the Ancient mad.

Janos’ black wings slumped a little at the vampire lord’s expression. “Forgive me. I must admit, opportunities to enjoy company have been few of late. Especially that of two having some interest in sorcery.” He slanted Kain a sidelong look. “The boy - Rahab - has no little natural talent. But I think you know that.”

The proffered explanation was undeniably a facile one, but Kain could scent no hint of untruth on the Ancient. Which was, frankly, confounding. How could a creature as sentimental as this have survived centuries, alone, and with the humans baying for his blood? It seemed inconceivable, and Kain’s hard-won experience told him to be wary of a trap. Raziel might well be naif enough to trust Janos on sight, once they met; Kain, however, was not such a fool. “Summon Vorador to serve as you please, then. I recall that he oft worked passable magery.” Kain’s eyes narrowed a fraction. 

“Ah. Yes,” but Janos merely glanced aside, laying the little pair of boots on the dustless tabletop in favor of unpacking the rest of his strange treasures. The orange gourd and various items of clothing nestled atop a large woven basket, which served as the conveyance for a carefully-wrapped meat pie, a string of sausages, stacked squares of pynade, an entire wheel of cheese and another of butter, several sacks of varying size, and a dozen large autumn apples. Each of these last, he turned over in his talons, inspecting for bruises. “Vorador… is well skilled in a great number of things, magery one of them. But he is not always the most considerate of companions.” 

Kain found himself hard-pressed to keep his expression stony -- this body tended to be somewhat more expressive, lacking the heavy armor that imbued his natural form. Was this some kind of fresh insanity? If Janos wanted either consideration or companionship, he had only to command it. Or -- was it possible that Janos had permitted Vorador to run free, without a master? For millennia, perhaps: a caitiff of great power, set loose on an unsuspecting world.

It would… explain a few things about Vorador, come to think of it. 

Janos glanced sidelong at Kain, and must have seen some measure of his disquiet, for the winged vampire returned his attention to his prizes. “You need not fear that I share his … proclivities. My curiosity is merely that, nothing more. In truth, I have seen mageling human children before, albeit none so lacking indoctrination. You, however, are an entirely different kind of enigma.” Setting the apples down with practiced care, he turned to fully face his guest. “May I inquire as to the form you wear, Kain?”

The vampire lord arched a brow. Over the ages, he’d developed a number of tricks to avoid magical detection, when he willed it. Altering his form would do him little good if even the least mage could detect the magical weavings, after all. “I have spelled no beguilements.”

Janos nodded. “I know. The spell appears unlike the common guises -- and consumes considerably more power, too, to judge by the number of Roh glyphs you’ve used. There are certain alchemical and porting elements as well, but in the outer shell, it seems more like a ward. Or a binding?” 

There was little point in prevarication, apparently. “The latter,” Kain confirmed. “To impress a new form to flesh--”

“--or to shift it to either,” Janos finished, eyes wide. “Transformation, including a change in physical mass? I would have thought it impossible.”

Kain permitted the corner of his mouth to curl. “I would not recommend it for a creature with lesser healing abilities.” With proper attention, even very young vampires healed almost every wound perfectly, albeit more slowly -- a fact which Kain had put to good use on occasion, such as when he’d been forced to hamstring an over-curious fledgling. Still, shapeshifting required the ability to knit a form back together after its forced rearrangement, which made the skill unsuitable for all but the strongest of his lines. 

Janos shook his head. “Indeed, even powering such a spell -- do you make great use of energy banks?”

Yet another problem to which Kain had no easy solution, if he were forced to spend more than a few weeks near the boy. “No. They are not suitable for continuous spells.” Kain frowned. He still had a handful of the small blue orbs, but the devices were rarely useful, Kain had found, even as a comparative neonate. Once consumed, they fueled unlimited casting for a short time only, and thereafter left the user with a raging headache and exhausted medical abilities. If Kain were forced to abruptly drop his shapeshifting weave… well. The consequences did not bear dwelling upon.

The winged vampire blinked. “Then perhaps our meeting is fortuitous for many reasons. It sounds as if the banks are not properly attuned -- you find that their energy is released all at once? I can show you means of filtering the power, so that it does not overwhelm the senses, if you wish.”

Kain’s lips tightened. “Presuming I were interested -- what would you demand in exchange for this favor?”

“Demand?” Janos tilted his head, a bit taken aback. “Such a thing is a minor bit of magery. However, if you require an equivalent exchange …. hm.” Folding hands behind him, underneath his wings, Janos paced to the balcony and looked up to the sky. “In exchange, perhaps you can tell me of whence you came? You are the Balance Guardian--in an age when the Pillars have already been claimed by humans. Yet despite your appearance, you are not one of them. How did this come to be?”

“You ask a high price for an admittedly minor lessoning,” Kain retorted, more out of a desire to see how much Janos valued this information than true irritation. “And if I refuse to speak of it?” 

Janos shrugged. “You and your charge are welcome to stay, regardless. It is simply curiosity, nothing more.” 

Such easy capitulation had Kain reassessing his erstwhile host. Looking at the set of those shoulders, he wondered if it was ennui, as much as curiosity or Vorador’s urging, that had brought Janos out of solitude. If Kain understood the flow of history aright, Janos had been in hiding for centuries, the last Ancient, guarding the Reaver from human hands. Kain had seen this before: elders who found themselves with uncertain purpose, to whom the turning of the ages made nothing of interest. Some descended into hedonistic excess, much like Vorador had. Others simply withdrew, mewed themselves away like ancient dragons, uninterested in the affairs of the outside world--at least until that world came storming in with fire and sword to end them. Perhaps Janos had succumbed, in his own way, to the inertia of immortality.

Those times when Kain required the cooperation of one of his spawn so burdened by the ages, he’d simply explained his need... via the tip of a most eloquent whip. Or blade. But judging by Janos’ fragile-seeming wings, the way he panted when exerted, the apparent thinness of his skin -- such a method might not be appropriate here. Hn. 

“I will not pretend to know the full course of history, Janos, nor guess at what I may recount of my own role within its flow.” Kain said, and caught at the flash of disappointment in the winged vampire’s eyes, the resigned tightening of his wings. Interesting. Kain stalked to stand beside the Ancient, looking out over the night mists, the gathering clouds that heralded winter’s snows in these high reaches. The Pillars themselves, whole and pure, would be visible on a clearer night. 

“Instead, I can tell you of the Reaver, and the being destined to bear it.” Destined to become it, if Kain played his cards wrongly. “It could do no harm; you will meet him soon enough.”

Janos’ reaction was impossible to miss, even had Kain not been watching for it: the sudden tremble to those long, dark wings, the sharp inhalation. “I -- you --” Janos swallowed. “Soon? And… you know Raziel?”

Kain let the corner of his mouth curl at that. Given his best guess at Rahab’s age, and presuming that this living precursor of Raziel was neither a great deal older nor younger -- “Within a third of a century, I expect. And yes. I… knew him. Divinations provided you his name?”

Janos nodded, expression more open and guileless than any Kain could recall seeing. “Yes, and other fragments. The Messiah is difficult to discern fully, his choices tack across the tributaries of time. Tell me...what is… what is he like?”

Messiah? Kain little beliked the term; it smacked of martyrdom. “Raziel … is an impetuous creature. His view of the world tends towards the absolute, for the better or for the worse. Oft for the worse, especially without a guiding hand,” Kain said slowly, trying to gauge what was safe to say to this oddly-innocent elder. “However, that passion is also his strength. Like a hawk, once he is set upon his quarry, he will not fail to achieve it.” Kain considered the Ancient’s visage, the enrapt fascination so plain to see there. “He is unbreakable, tempered with grace and steel. And he is... very beautiful.”

Kain watched the Ancient’s hands clench a little tighter, as if to keep from reaching out for support. “It seems --” Janos cleared his throat. “It seems you know him well.”

And not at all, Kain feared all too often. Once the hawk was on the wing, what force truly willed its return? “I have seen him when one of his brethren was taken, imprisoned or staked by the race of men. His fury was unquenchable, unceasing, until he had brought them safely back, and visited judgment upon those who had maimed the young. And,” Kain’s mouth twisted a little. “I have seen him bestow great mercies upon those of his fold, or permit quick deaths where I would have dealt slow ones. If you sought a noble hand for the Reaver -- there could be none better.”

Janos released a slow sigh, wings drooping slightly in relief. “That is… very good to hear. After so many years watching the humans, I had feared … well. It matters little. The cycle will turn, regardless. I will admit, it unburdens my heart very much to hear that I will not have to wait much longer. “

Kain glanced at him sidelong, studying the bare gratitude, the renewed determination, so plainly to be read in the Ancient’s body language. He could not help but wonder if Janos would look forward to that fateful meeting if he knew what lay in store at its conclusion--but telling the other vampire the bloody end that awaited him would avail Kain little. And in the meantime … perhaps some diversion could be had. “Not long at all, for creatures such as we,” he agreed. “For the nonce, I will admit, I have spent more time among humans than I prefer.” As had Janos, for that matter. The scent of mortals still clung around them both. Kain permitted himself to grimace slightly in pointed illustration. 

Janos blinked, awakened from his newfound revelations. “I have been remiss, I fear. Please, there is clothing afresh, as well as a bathing pool -- or do you prefer the fine mineral oil, as Vorador does?”

Kain hesitated, but the Ancient’s open expression seemed to suggest against any probing for exploitable weakness. “The latter, I believe,” Kain said, letting his tone drop into a growling rumble. “Lead the way.”

 

\-----

 

The way led skyward. As Kain had suspected, Janos had claimed one of the expansive top floor suites for his own use. He bid Kain wait while he gathered several robes from within, and then palmed open the huge, sliding brass doors to an adjoining tower top. Kain had prowled here as well, during his exploration of the citadel, but had not been able to fathom the space’s use. For though the rooftop was well warded to keep warmth within and expel rain, it lacked a ceiling, and boasted but waist-high walls. Instead, it was dominated by an arbor, covered over with climbing roses.

Just a few hours ago, there had been a multitude of dusty cushions and an empty pit of sorts beneath the arbor, a stepped square basin as large as any hematite-lined bloodbath. Whatever it was, the place had not seen use for some time. Now, the fallen leaves and dust were gone, the roses bloomed crimson, and the basin lapped with a warmed, clear liquid. Piped in, perhaps? Evidently, there was more to these housekeeping spells than apparent at first inspection.

The deep, verdant green silk and fine stitching on the surrounding benches caught Kain’s eye, as he knelt to confirm that the liquid’s nature matched its scent. A very light fraction of mineral oil, indeed, gentle on the flesh of either mortal or undead. The plentitude of soft surfaces, the oil, the abundance of greenery -- all seemed just slightly out of place. Could it be that Kain had been led to evidence of Vorador’s efforts to seduce his Sire? Amused, Kain shook his fingertips dry and stood as Janos set the neatly-folded clothing on a nearby stool. 

Reviewing the tells that Janos had provided him this night, Kain inclined his head, idly loosening his bracers. “This is pleasant indeed; you have my thanks. Join me, if you will,” he invited, rather than commanding as he might have otherwise, mindful of the Ancient’s high esteem for ‘consideration.’ 

Janos smiled, wings fluffing slightly in apparent pleasure at the invitation. “I would be delighted. It has been a long time since I have taken advantage of luxuries such as these. Too long, perhaps.” He lifted black-taloned hands, nimbly undoing the fastenings of his white robes; it seemed the Ancients ascribed to few of the humans’ foolish beliefs regarding modesty. Which was all to the good, as far as Kain was concerned. Of the church’s many, many strictures, the taboos on nudity seemed particularly irrelevant, especially for creatures who could disguise themselves or change shape at will.

And the shape thus revealed… was more than merely pleasant. Janos was lean, the great majority of his strength gathered visibly across the chest and back, smooth ripples of muscle underneath perfect skin the shade of the bowl of a desert sky, undeniably lovely. Would the ages have adapted Raziel so, shaped him exclusively for flight? But Kain was certain that vampiric evolution would never have rendered Raziel this… delicate, sleek and thin-skinned as a newly-risen fledgling. 

Kain stripped away his own garments with a will--after their travels, they were somewhat worse for the wear. His own noble guise held, and disrobing did nothing but reveal pale skin-- somewhat more human than the stark white of his original vampire body, much less the striated ivory-and-jade patina of his current evolved form. He was not greatly concerned that his guise would slip, but in truth, he had never before used this spell for such long periods of time. Nor, come to think of it, had he used the spell as he planned to, now. But then, he’d been capable of maintaining the wolf’s shape during certain… diversions, as disobedient fledglings knew all too well. Keeping this form in place should prove no more difficult.

Setting the soiled garments aside, Kain stepped down into the bath, taking a moment to absorb the silken feel of oil on soft, human skin rather than his own stony hide. It was … an unexpectedly delicious sensation. Without natural armor, there was nothing dulling the pleasurable lap of liquid against sensitive skin, and once Kain had satisfied himself that there was nothing in the pool that posed a danger to either himself or his disguise, he sank into it with the greatest of pleasure. 

Janos smiled at him, turning from where he had set aside his garments. “It meets with your approval?”

Kain stretched luxuriously in the heated liquid, spreading his arms out along the rim of one side. As thoroughly enjoyable as the oil was -- very close in comfort to a blood bath, albeit slightly more slippery, and lacking rich scent -- the view was even better as Janos approached. Slim hips, sleek through the thigh and buttocks, a trail of small, curling feathers from navel to groin. The Ancient’s talons and cloven feet were skinned over with only slightly tougher-looking hide than the rest of him, his nails were as short as a fledgling’s, but made for a pleasingly dark contrast to the blue. And those wings framed it all, lifting up, arching as Janos stepped down into the oil. 

Kain could not entirely discount the possibility that the Ancient’s strange innocence, his relief, even his invitation here, were a ruse, part of an elaborate power game. Such machinations were common things, during the long apex of Kain’s empire. But this, the vulnerable arch of wings so like a baring of the throat -- was nothing of falsehood. “Very much to my approval,” Kain said, subtly gesturing the Ancient deeper. It would not do to spook the winged vampire at this early juncture -- Kain could afford to be patient. “Tell me, do you fear wetting your feathers in so much oil?” 

Janos seemed not to register the predatory gleam in Kain’s regard. “Not at all -- indeed, it may do them some good,” he said, frowning at the shining expanse of one wing as if it were in some measure unsatisfactory, although Kain could not imagine how. “Patting each feather thoroughly dry afterwards, so that it might not clump to the others or gather dust, is a time-consuming endeavor, however.” 

Kain’s rumble of amusement was a curling, sinuous thing. “Just as well, then, that we have time aplenty… and more than one pair of hands between us, is it not?” 

“Indeed,” Janos agreed. He sank downward with a sigh, wings creating tiny wavelets with each movement. Having maneuvered his dark pinions out of the way, Janos sat upon a nearby ledge to soak. The oil slicked cobalt skin, turned those wings into shining ebony, and Kain suddenly found himself hard-pressed not to lay claim to the delectable temptation that suddenly lay, all unknowing, within his grasp. 

“This pool, and the keep, then--are they of Ancient make? I have never seen their like before.” Which was not, strictly speaking, the truth … Kain had seen many of the Ancients’ relics, their hidden shrines and blood fountains in his wanderings. But he had never seen them maintained and powered like this. Besides, a little bit of flattery would put his quarry at ease, and if talking about architecture served to distract his baser impulses … well. That was all to the good. 

“Yes, it was once a retreat, a place of study. Some areas have been adapted to circumstance of course, such as the pool. And there used to be many hands to maintain the workings.” Janos smiled sadly, leaning back against the alabaster tile, one outspread wing idly skulling the surface of the oil into ripples. “But even then, it was built to last. Much like the--” Janos abruptly swallowed his words, glancing down.

“The plumbing and carvings set into enormous puzzle-blocks?” Kain said dryly, brow arched. 

Janos blinked, seeming abashed. It was a strikingly comely expression. “I hope you will forgive the mystery they must have posed,” said the Ancient solemnly. “We designed them to be unpassable by magic. And only the Chosen One could have the strength to move such great weights.” 

“You put great faith in a creature you have never met,” Kain said wryly, forbearing to mention just how often his spawn had used those puzzles as convenient locks against humans and young fledglings. Kain had forbidden tampering of the Reaver forges beyond, but the spaces that housed them had always been fair game, for those with the strength to access them. “What if your ‘Chosen One’ had been a stripling, and incapable of overcoming such barriers?” Not that Kain would have ever allowed such a weakling to live, much less be chosen as his firstborn. 

“If he had been incapable, then he would not have been the Chosen One,” Janos said simply, with all the assurance of a creature whose faith was absolute. “But I had seen glimpses enough to know that he would prevail in the end. Although some of them were … confusing.”

“Confusing.” Kain shifted a little closer, as if in interest. “How so?”

Janos tilted his head, considering the query. “He seems to... change. The glimpses are never quite alike. One divination appeared to foretell -- a very great prize, an object of great worth. There was a human abode, like unto a merchant house with many pieces of half-finished soapstone sculptures, and a cut crystal vase of amethyst. But the Divine One’s countenance was strange, his hands like unto those of the form you wear.”

It took Kain a moment to place the event. A slow curl gathered at the corner of his mouth. “The vase was not the prize,” he said slowly, watching the Ancient, judging the very obvious interest in Janos’ gaze, the way he angled his torso towards Kain, the way he leaned in when Kain spoke quietly. He was close enough for Kain to lunge forward and snap his neck: not a fatal injury for any vampire Kain knew, but assuredly a disabling one. Yet Janos seemed oblivious to the danger. “We were but three, then, and Raziel was… very young. Nevertheless, I permitted him to hunt unaccompanied, whilst I attended to another matter.” The village had been a small one, far from hunting Sarafan. After securing the best-appointed hovel of the miserable lot, and dispatching the resident stonecarver, Kain had discovered Turel in need of certain... corrections. It had seemed safe enough to permit Raziel some slight leeway, then, with dawn still hours away. 

He should have realized even then that with Raziel, nothing was ever so simple.

At first he had been distracted by Turel’s mewls; the fledge had proven deliciously stubborn in submitting to his Sire. But soon, a commotion from outside had proven impossible to ignore. Snarling under his breath, Kain left Turel in his bonds, stalking to the door and throwing it open. Outside--

Outside was a rumpled Raziel, proudly dragging a half-conscious armored figure down the street by one leg. The man--and it was indubitably a man, one that likely outweighed the slender fledge by at least five stone--was bleeding sluggishly, but not quite dead. Even as Kain watched, the man roused, attempting to flail his way upwards and attack his undead captor, only to have Raziel descend upon him once more and gleefully beat him back into unconsciousness. The young vampire crouched over his prey for a moment, fangs bared--then, once assured the creature had been pacified, resumed dragging it down the street, leaving a smear of bright red blood behind.

Subtlety had never been Raziel’s strong suit.

“He returned with a prize indeed, the finest of the herd, and presented it before me.” Perforated with bites, liberally coated with dust and straw, but still a good catch - if Kain had actually wanted it. If the fool fledgling hadn’t bloody well *ignored* Kain’s orders in favor of dragging the creature back to him. And how Raziel had even managed to find and subdue the town's lone guardsman, Kain would never know. “Unfortunately, the remaining cattle fled, and their alarm alerted a local contingent of Sarafan before the night was out.” 

Janos shook his head, chuckling in appreciative bemusement. “It is strange indeed to think of the Messiah so young. And as such a poor huntsman.”

“Hn. He gained in skill with time.” Kain studied his own prey. Moving deceptively slowly, he gestured to Janos’ wingtip, brushing at the tips of several primaries. “And it seems that he was not the only one who chanced the ire of the Sarafan.” for several of that neat rank of feathers were missing, the replacements still pins no longer than Kain’s finger, like a swan in moult.

“Ah, yes.” Janos lifted one wing with a hint of chagrin, splaying the primaries to inspect the gap himself. “Careless of me, I suppose. Humans crave rare prizes--and I suppose now I am the rarest of them all.” Despite his words, there was no anger in his words, only mild resignation.

“I would imagine Vorador takes exception to such attempts,” Kain remarked, allowing his blunt, human-like fingertips to trail lightly over the softer secondaries. He kept the movement casual, even as he watched to see how Janos reacted. The elder vampire did not bristle at the liberty, as Kain half-expected. Instead those golden eyes went half-lidded in pleasure, damp feathers ruffling up, then sleeking back downward under his touch.

“He does. But vengeance serves nothing but to perpetuate the cycle, and there are far more of them than there are of us.” Janos sighed, shoulders lifting in a shrug, the oil gilding cobalt skin. “So I do what I can to ensure he does not know.” He gave Kain a wry smile, the tips of his fangs a glimmer against dark lips. “Sometimes I even succeed.”

“Oh? You collect many such injuries, to concern yourself with concealing them from Vorador’s view?” If the Ancient was in the habit of hiding his weaknesses from his over-protective spawn, that was all to Kain’s benefit. Although it did raise an interesting question: why would repair of wings be such a slow process, when vampiric healing was a rapid one? If Raziel had been destined to ever be feathered thusly-- Kain shook the thought away, in favor of slicking his fingertips farther into the dense layers of feathers. 

Janos shrugged, perhaps with a kind of fatalistic acceptance, perhaps in order to nudge Kain’s fingers to warm, velvety skin. “Some,” he admitted easily. “It seems ironic that Vorador so dislikes the sight of my bruises, when he cares not about far worse injuries to the humans he collects.” He sighed.

The Ancient… could suffer bruising? For long enough that another might notice? Kain took a care to compose his features. An interesting bit of information, to be sure. His own get had mainly evolved beyond such obvious displays of injury within their first few changes, unfortunately. It had been satisfying to observe the shadows blossom under skin…. He eased a little closer. “And these?” Kain asked, first stroking the developing pins of new feathers, then rolling them lightly between thumb and forefinger, so that the soft shafts tugged at the anchoring azure skin. “What does it feel like, to be feathered so?”

Janos shivered, feathers ruffling upwards. “I--ah, it is hard to say. After all, I have never known a time when I did not have them. Th-they .... require more care, I suppose?” he said finally. Kain noticed with interest that the Ancient’s breathing now came incrementally faster, pupils dilating. “They provide more warmth, I think, than hair.” 

“So it would seem,” Kain agreed, stroking through the thick underdown. He could scent arousal on the Ancient, carried on the heat of Janos’ skin -- not, perhaps, hot by human standards, but far warmer than any other vampire Kain had known. It was a fascinating contrast, almost as if Janos were both living and undead. Would his blood, likewise, be as vibrant as a human’s? Or potent as an elder’s? Or perhaps some unique combination of both….

The limb of the wing shivered at Kain’s touch, pulled back just a fraction. Had he driven his quarry too far, too fast? But Janos only laced his talons together, looking down to regard them. “I should--” He swallowed, and hesitantly turned the sharp edges to his nails upwards in illustration. “I -- I do not wish to injure you, Kain.”

The statement was simultaneously so bizarre and improbable, Kain found himself momentarily at a loss. He probably should have taken umbrage -- even the least, new-risen fledgling should have been able to sense that Kain was far, far more than he presently appeared. But the Ancient spoke with such solemn sincerity. Perhaps this form did have certain... advantages. He moved to kneel on the submerged step, sliding one knee slowly in between the winged vampire’s thighs. Janos parted for him, a little shyly, but under the oil he was already more than half-hard. 

Kain wrapped his human-like fingers around the Ancient’s wrist, stark white on azure. “I sincerely doubt, Janos, that you could injure me,” Kain spoke instead, and drew those talons to his own skin.

“I…” Janos swallowed again, startled into looking up, his eyes tracing the perfect, unarmored plains of Kain’s assumed form. He drew a shuddering breath as Kain pressed leathery, blue-skinned talons to his pale chest. “I -- oh. Delicate… like the moon woven into flesh.” It took little urging to convince Janos to stroke across Kain’s chest, trailing talon-tips lightly up one shoulder, finding the oil-heavy cascade of hair. He threaded talon-tips through the silken strands. “From -- from the intimacy of your tales, it... it seems you have... known Raziel?”

Kain’s smile was a slow and razored thing. “Yes. As I would know you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Janos’ breath caught, and his hips jerked involuntarily against the insistent pressure of Kain’s thigh. The thump of his heart seemed to stir the very oil around them. “It has been some time…” 

“Then let me remind you,” Kain said, gliding sensitive fingertips up the Ancient’s sternum, where all the flight muscles gathered, higher, tilting Janos’ head back so that he might slant pale lips over the pulse-point of that vulnerable throat. More intimate than a kiss, as ancient as domination itself, the caress was light, a parting of soft lips, slow sweep of tongue… and the faint pressure of teeth. If this had been one of his Lieutenants, or even their elder progeny, their first instinctive reaction would have been resistance. In truth, Kain enjoyed that defiance--or rather, enjoyed wringing every last scrap of it out of his chosen victim. 

But Janos was an entirely different creature, and there was no resistance in his quiet gasp, the way his head fell back, baring his throat in abject submission, all unknowing of the danger he courted. A throaty, churring sound of pleasure escaped as Kain deepened the kiss, daring to bring the edges of subtly-sharp incisors into play as he nipped his way over the vulnerable hollow. Janos’ talons spread over pale human hips, tugging Kain closer, mutely begging for more.

“This … it is so strange,” Janos murmured. “To feel such strength, underneath such fragile skin ….ah!”

“Strange, am I?” Kain purred, letting his hands slick down the Ancient’s soft hide, beneath the oil. He wrapped pale fingers slowly around Janos’ shaft for a moment, a single slow, testing squeeze. The Ancient gasped, bucking up, splayed wings trembling against the edge of the pool. The motion gave Kain space enough to slip an arm behind the winged vampire’s waist, lifting him a little from the seat, dragging him closer. “It must have been some centuries, since Vorador was as I seem.” 

“Ah!” Janos clutched at Kain’s shoulders, nails drawing shallow scores that healed so quickly they bled only droplets, just scenting the air faintly of old power and lightning. He cried out as Kain’s hand left him after that one brief stroke, fingertips gliding lower, teasing at the breath-soft down. “V-vora-- ” He was panting now, trembling faintly under Kain’s mouth. His pupils, when Kain drew back to watch him, were dilated. For a creature of his age and power he seemed … oddly pliant, the coiled strength beneath that silken skin submitting sweetly, wantonly. It made Kain want to push him even further, to break Janos open and possess him completely.

“He-- V--” Janos swallowed hard, slim, strong thighs opening to Kain’s touch. And then breath left him in a gasp as Kain carefully cradled his balls in soft palm… and pressed two long fingers against the tight little ring of his opening. 

Kain brought his lips to the delicate point of one sky-blue ear. “Or perhaps your tongue wishes to dwell on other matters,” he rumbled, catching at the lobe, nipping there. He didn’t force it, not yet, just feeling with sensitive fingertips, testing the clench of that muscle. 

“Mmn. When I take you, I want you calling out for it, pleading for it. For me.” Kain smiled slowly against the curve of Janos’ jawline. He had rarely allowed Raziel the mercy of preparation. But then, this was something of a unique situation. “It has indeed been some time for you, hasn’t it,” he purred, and centered one oil-slick finger. And pressed.

Janos made a high-pitched, keening sound, whole body shuddering, wings fanning and flexing. But despite his human appearance, his thin skin and reduced eyeteeth, Kain’s physical strength was enough to keep the winged vampire pinned against him, opening for him. So very, very tight. He rocked his palm against Janos’ groin, light counterpoint to the unrelenting slide as he breached the resistance, pushed in to the knuckle. “Nnggh -- I --” 

Kain’s rumble of pleasure was a coiling, sinuous thing. “I’m going to put another in you, now,” he murmured. With so much oil like this, even the extraordinary tightness of that little ring of muscle could not bar him entry. But it tried, clenching down against him, and Kain found that  
this human form with its blunted fingers did have certain advantages after all -- he could feel everything, every delicious involuntary shudder. 

Janos was crying out now, soft, descending gasps. He was fully hard, cock pressed against the hollow of Kain’s hip. Giving him precious little time to adjust, Kain crooked his fingers, feeling out the firmer mound of flesh inside. The resulting buck, the spasm of wide-spread wings, nearly lost Kain his grasp, and he waited motionless, fingertips pressed just there. 

“More?” Kain rumbled, when the shuddering Ancient had calmed somewhat. Panting, Janos clutched at the pale vampire’s back… and after a moment, nodded mutely.

Even devoid of fangs, Kain’s smile was a sharp-edged and predatory thing. “You know how to ask me.”

“I--” Janos swallowed hard, breath in hitching gasps. “Please, I need … it’s been--it’s too much. I can’t--ah!”

“Easy, yes,” Kain murmured, giving that vulnerable throat one last nip before slowly, very slowly, withdrawing his fingers. “Over the edge of the bath, I think, with your chest on the tiles, and I will give you what you need. There, easy--” Kain released the shuddering Ancient gradually, applying subtle pressure to one shoulder, urging him to turn. 

“There you are; doing so well,” Kain purred, enjoying the sight of oil-slick back and wings bared so trustingly to him, the feel of feathers against his skin as those black wings shivered, mantling upwards in lovely, instinctive presentation. He slid forward to cover the azure skin between those long pinions, nuzzling open-mouthed against the downy line where feathers met hair at the nape of the neck. Janos shuddered hard under the press of his body. Even with little more than merely human hearing, Kain fancied he could hear the pounding of that heart, the quicksilver rush of the living vampiric blood through the veins that lay so temptingly close. Sliding one hand downward, he traced the feathery trail down a firm abdomen, the oil slicking his way as he wrapped one hand around Janos’ cock. Kain stroked slowly, exploring the faintly-alien texture, the slim clean shape of him, enjoying the fine, overstimulated shivers of that body even as he adjusted his own thick cock against the sky-blue curves of Janos’ ass. 

“Down,” Kain breathed into Janos’ neck, placing his free hand between those wings. Janos could have struggled in the hold, pitted his strength against Kain’s--and in Kain’s current guise, the elder vampire might even have won. Instead, after his first startled flinch, Janos yielded to Kain’s urging, gripping the edge of the pool. Bending over, he spread taloned fingers over the cool tiles, turning a cheek against them, golden eyes slitting shut in pleasure. 

Black wings mantled upwards as the movement fitted them even closer together, Kain’s eager flesh nuzzling against the cleft of Janos’ ass. Janos whined a little under his breath, his barely-stretched hole clasping and empty. “K-Kain, I--”

“Yes … you need this, don’t you?” Kain purred, tracing soft fingertips over Janos’ cock, exploring the differences, the smoothness, the way the head met the shaft without loose skin, but rather a soft, subtle ridge. “You know the words to make this happen, Janos.” He pushed teasingly forward, his cock rubbing slickly between those spread thighs, the blunt head nudging at the sensitive patch of flesh behind soft-downy balls. Janos shuddered hard as an electric jolt of pleasure sizzled up his spine. 

“You--you seem very experienced ...ah! A-at this …” Arousal was a fire that fogged the senses, set every muscle to shivering, but even still, some of the divinations fell into place. Raziel, pinned under clawed hands, bound in rope or wire...

“Quite a bit, yes. Although these …” and Kain released his grip on Janos’ cock to lift hands and stroke human-delicate fingers down over those quivering wings. “These are quite new to me. And assuredly intriguing …” He traced their splayed surfaces, fingers dipping through wetted feathers to map the corded muscle beneath the down. So strong, and yet so soft … if there was anything he regretted in all his long existence, it was that his actions, necessary as they might have been, ensured that he would never have a chance to--

No. That was one memory of Raziel that did not need to be shared, nor lingered upon.

The pain was an old one, well worn, and the present moment had its own undeniable allure. Kain’s voice was a deep, insidious ruble. “Tell me, Janos. Do you want my cock? Pushing so deep you’ll feel it up through your spine, lodged in your belly, my palm wrapped tight around you. My nails on your hip will leave bruises you’ll remember for days….” Kain lapped at the nape of Janos’ neck, bit there, lightly and then more firmly as Janos jerked against him. 

“I-- yes,” Janos gasped, talons scrabbling on the tile, hips flexing as if he could push himself back against Kain, gasping when Kain’s fingers wrapped the thickness of his wing limbs, pinning him down still more securely, splayed for Kain’s delectation. The Messiah might have been where he was now, and that-- If Kain had been giving him just a little more stimulation, Janos might have come at the very thought. “Nngh. I… please, please. Please, been waiting so long, please don’t make me-- ”

The bite tightened at the back of Janos’ neck. And then Kain released one wing, took himself in hand, slid the head of his cock between the oil slick planes of Janos’ ass, and set it at the puckered little opening. Janos stiffened, clenched against him, so tight it felt like there was no place for him at all. Kain pushed, feeling the slow spread against the tip of him -- in his noble guise, his flesh was less armored, and more sensitive than his natural form, and the rule held true here as well. The sensations were blindingly intense, grasping, tight. The Ancient was like a furnace around Kain’s cooler body. 

Janos’ wings were quivering as if he’d been shot. It was magnificent. Penetration now inevitable, Kain brought his hand instead to Janos’ organ, stroking gently in counterpoint to the aching spread as, a little at a time, he impaled the Ancient. 

The clasp as the head of him sank inside was extraordinary, the soft mewling sounds wrung from that elegant, blue-skinned throat even more so. Kain held himself, just there, giving Janos time to register exactly what was happening, to adjust if he could. And then, fingers wrapped tight around the base of the Ancient’s cock so that it might not flag, he pushed in, one long, cruel stroke until hips bruised soft blue skin, until he could go no deeper.

Janos arched, every muscle drawn taut, as he was breached. Gasping, broken cries escaped his throat, cries that he would have stoppered up in any other context--but here and now, everything was blurred, fear and instinct, pain and pleasure. “K-Kain …” he managed, the name both a benediction and a plea. It had been a long time indeed, and the power of this stranger was a potent elixir, lapping over his skin, penetrating to his bones. And deep within, spreading him open, that cool, hard cock drove in hard, Kain taking what he wanted without mercy. His body clenched without him willing it, an instinctive reflex against the intrusion, powerful internal muscles clamping down. A mere human would not have been able to withstand Janos’ strength; would have felt himself caught in a vise, clasped to the point of pain. But Kain… all enigma, he seemed to revel in it, growling low as he pushed even further, until he was balls-deep, the line of their bodies fitted together as closely as if they were one creature.

“There we are,” Kain growled low, nipping at Janos’ bowed neck. “Now, I wonder--shall we see how long you can last?” His hand stroked downward, assured and confident, and Janos cried out again, squirming underneath those fingers, his cock achingly hard. If Kain wished to prolong their pleasure, then this was assuredly not the way to go about it!

And then Kain flexed his hips, drawing out. That burning spread was replaced by loss, the pain of having that frighteningly thick, long cock dragged out of him, a sharp ache in powerful counterpoint to the slick grip around his own organ, the stroking that seemed to find all the sensitive places at the elbow joint of Janos’ wing, along his flank, the curves of his hip. Kain hesitated, just the head of him inside, relishing the reluctant pressure there, the way the taut little opening spread so reluctantly. 

Then Kain adjusted his angle, and plunged back in. This time, the stroke ran unerringly across the most sensitive places within, one long lightning bolt of agonizing bliss. It was like a jolt of electricity straight up the spine, more pain and pleasure and pure _sensation_ than any creature could fully process. For the first time in centuries, it felt as if this body were not Janos’ own, were nothing but an instrument, a thing that jerked and shuddered by another’s will, used and encompassed and borne on an electrical tide. 

Kain gave no quarter, setting a rhythm impossible to predict or adjust to, now stroking short thrusts over the rise of his prostate, now long ones that dragged the impalement nearly out, that made Janos moan and writhe against the unforgiving tile. The grip around the Ancient’s cock was likewise measured, some caresses light as the brush as a feather, some tight to the point of further pain. And all the while Kain kept him pinned, forbidding resistance, stilling all but the quaking that seemed to have taken up residence in Janos’ very core. 

Dark wings lifted, half-spread to either side, held trembling as Janos shuddered under each powerful thrust. Kain’s strokes were measured, fingers exploring, gauging each reaction to his touch until each firm rub down Janos’ engorged cock was perfect--or perfectly calculated to keep him on the edge. Every time Janos came close, felt his balls drawing upward, about to burst--those firm, assured strokes became feather-light, teasing touches to keep him on the edge and still deny him his pleasure. And all the while, Kain’s heavy thrusts never faltered, spearing deep, rubbing hard over every tender spot within until Janos’ himself was keening, baring fangs in desperate desire. He needed more, he needed--his talons screeched along the tiles as he tried to squirm, to turn or push back and *take* his pleasure. 

But Kain had positioned himself well. This close, with legs spread, wings heavy with oil and chest flat against the cool edge of the pool, getting any leverage was impossible. Strong as Janos’ was, when he tried to push himself upward, his tormentor’s free hand was there, between his wings, pinning him in place with immovable strength. Freedom was as impossible as if his wings had been clipped; all he could do was submit as he was taken, filled to depths he had forgotten were even possible. There was none of Vorador’s reverence in this claiming. Only Kain’s possessive grip as he thrust deep again and again, uncaring of bruises or discomfort. It was maddening, and yet … blindingly pleasurable. Kain wrung pleasure out of Janos whether the Ancient willed it or not, and all Janos could do was endure, to shudder with ecstasy as he was fucked, giving up his body to Kain to do with as he pleased.

Impossible to say how long it lasted, the fires of conjoined pain and pleasure burning up the Ancient’s sense of time, of place, of himself, of the solitary burden he had borne for millennia. There was nothing left but this, the warm oil, the slap of skin on skin, the relentless and uncontrollable bliss. He couldn’t even -- couldn’t even touch himself, for when he tried, Kain’s hands were there instead, forcing both wings flat against the tile where Janos’ own broad flight surfaces denied him access to his aching cock. The concentration necessary to call on a spell had long since fled, and Janos could only cling to the tile, crying out with each heavy, long thrust.

It was only when Kain fisted fingers in his hair that Janos understood that he was crying in truth, whispering a litany of “please Kain, oh please, please” with every thrust, eyes watering with relief and frustration, bliss and pain, moisture tracking down his cheeks. 

Kain’s lips were against his ear, and the pale vampire’s voice resonated down through his bones, coiled in his chest. “Good boy,” Kain purred, and pressed his wrist to Janos’ mouth.

Janos could no more have stopped the hunger from rising than he could prevent the turning of the ages. In an instant, his lips parted, fangs bared, and he bit through -- into the storm. The power that balanced the world, the heart of the pillars themselves, age and strength and the distilled essence of a million lives consumed, all of it in that black blood. Janos could no more escape from it than the relentless pounding into his body. It was everything, too much, and he came, his body seizing in ecstasy, impossible to stop. The paroxysm emptied him, untouched, into the warm oil, hips jerking helplessly. It felt like orgasm wrung him hollow from toes to shoulders, nothing left but euphoria and blood. 

Kain rode the crest of Janos’ climax without faltering, fingers digging into azure skin and ebony feathers. The clench of the Ancient’s body around him was delicious, muscles rippling around his cock, the bright pain-sparks where fangs had pierced his wrist only adding to his pleasure. Kain thrust hard and fast, a rising staccato beat as he felt the upswell of his own climax. He could have slowed, held off his orgasm and prolonged his pleasure--but Janos’ stamina was an unknown quantity, and he supposed he owed the Ancient a certain amount of consideration in ensuring he did not come to permanent harm. *This* time, at least.

One stroke, two, five--and then his own orgasm was on him, pleasure swamping him in a great wave. Kain snarled in victory, biting down at the join of shoulder and neck with blunted human teeth. He thrust deep one last time into that pliant body, letting the aftershocks of Janos’ own climax wring his pleasure out of him, shuddering convulsively as he filled Janos with his seed. 

Afterwards, there was silence, broken only by the sounds of Janos’ panting breaths and the lap oil against the sides of the pool. Janos was limp beneath him, still wracked by intermittent fine shivers, wings drooping. 

Kain forced himself to stir first, though in truth, the blue-skinned vampire seemed so thoroughly blissed on blood and aftershock, there seemed little chance of him rousing unduly. He lapped at the semi-circle of bruises his teeth had left, the places he’d broken skin. Only a taste, a few fine droplets, but even still Janos tasted like champagne, like effervescence and magic, as much spectral as flesh. 

Kain tugged lightly at the lobe of Janos’ ear with his teeth, voice a deep, distracting rumble as he disengaged his wrist from the other vampire’s fangs. “I will bring you to your chambers now, where I will see your wings dried between fleeces. You will remain there, spread for me, whilst I check on the boy,” he said. The twin wounds at his wrist vanished the moment he was free. Janos did not resist him, as pliant as a human. But he was listening; Janos made a thick, contented sound when Kain drew himself carefully, slowly out of the Ancient’s warm body and purred, “for when I return … I may take you again.”

Janos swallowed heavily, limbs stirring as Kain gathered him up under wings and at the back of the thighs. But there was no struggle, no flash of frustration or anger at the commands, which would have given Kain easy excuse to exact correction. Rather, Janos simply drew his wings in tight, tiredly winding an arm around the back of Kain’s neck as he lifted them both up and out of the pool, the oil sheeting from their bodies. The movement wasn’t as easy as it otherwise might have been; Kain’s noble guise had its limitations, and exerting his full vampire strength while wearing this flesh was impossible. With only feet instead of hooves, he had to place each step carefully to keep from slipping. Even with such limitations, however, he had strength enough to handle one oil-soaked Ancient, wings at all.

“You …” Janos murmured, golden eyes slitting half-open. “You are a surprising creature indeed, Kain.” His eyes closed again, trustingly, and Kain knew not what to make of such easy submission. “I … look forward to learning more about you.”

\----

The boy slept through the night, curled in the center of the great bed, furs tousled and heaped about him in a downy nest. Even when Kain stood over him, adjusting the spellworks on the coin to account for Rahab’s improved health, the creature did not stir from his exhausted slumber. 

After a suitable time, Kain returned to Janos, and found that the Ancient had moved not at all from his ordered position -- splayed in his own bed, skin and feathers mainly buffed dry… and talons clutching into the layers of absorbent fleece and felt beneath him. He had not tampered with the binding around his cock with which Kain had left him, nor the slender silver phallus that kept him open and awaiting Kain. 

In reward, Kain took his time mapping the Ancient’s wings, the ways they responded to varying pressures, different kinds of caresses. He found places that, when kneaded properly, made Janos muffle his moans in the down-filled pillows, places that made him flinch -- and places that made him beg. And when the Ancient was sobbing for it once more, Kain made good on his darksome promise, and took him again, emptying his seed deep into that slender body, imprinting his scent on every inch of azure skin.

Afterwards, Kain rested beside his quarry, idly tracing the bruises and bite marks, a painted canvass for his thoughts. He permitted both Janos and the boy to sleep until dawn broke, until the sun was two fists high on the horizon--and how strange was that, to watch an elder vampire slumber, by turns as fitful and as contented as a human? 

Then he rose, cleaned himself with scraper and alcohol-wetted scraps of cloth, and dressed in dark leather armor fit for the fledgling he resembled. When Kain again laid a hand on the sleeping Ancient, there was no startlement or snaring -- Janos only blinked up at him sleepily, mouth curving in a small, sweet smile. 

It was profoundly confusing. Janos was unendingly pliant, consistently gave without protest. Yet the Ancient was clearly intelligent, and it seemed impossible that he did not understand the true meaning of his submission. Perhaps it was time to test the extent of Kain’s control in a greater variety of matters. “You spoke of means of attuning power banks, did you not? You will teach me of them this day. In addition, I find myself with few basic magical texts, of the sort suitable for a neonate mage. I will require several -- particularly copies of On Meditations and Aphorisms.”

“I should have both,” Janos nodded, pleased to be helpful, “as well as space quite useful for study -- in the eleventh floor library, I believe. Shall I meet you and the boy there in short order?”

Kain hesitated, again taken aback by the easy capitulation. Was it possible that he was… missing something? Kain stroked slowly down the Ancient’s flank, fitting his hand over a five-fingered bruise, like a shadow left beneath the azure skin. “So you shall.”

******

Rahab was picking at the crumbs of the loaf he’d devoured last night when the warlock came for him once more. Conscious of Kain’s orders, he’d not touched the door. He’d hesitated over exploring the room, as well, but the fabrics and furniture were so fantastical, so beautiful, he couldn’t keep himself from them for long. There was a desk like the innkeeper’s, only so much larger and more beautiful, with drawers that pulled out whisper-quiet and with hardly any force. Within lay a village’s ransom in inks, paper as white and fine as clouds, fragile feather styluses such as the merchants used, and so many other strange things. Thirst eventually drove him to the basin of gently flowing water. He knew that water was not safe to drink unless wine or vinegar was added, and yet this water was somehow sweet and tasted so clean, Rahab found himself drinking many handfuls.

A small room off to the side contained a true marvel--a mirror as big as Rahab’s whole body! It had to have been created by magic, it was so perfect, without so much as a single scratch or ripple in the silvered surface. He gazed into that perfect reflection for a time, entranced by the image of the tattered waif behind the glass, scarcely believing it was himself. 

He could find nothing that resembled a chamber pot, save for vases and containers so fine that Rahab dared not touch them. There was a wrist-sized hole in the smooth stone floor, perhaps a drain of sorts, and eventually driven by desperation Rahab relieved himself there, pouring water down afterwards to disguise what he’d done. Finally, a rumbling belly led him to check the tabletop for any lingering crumbs, and it was there the warlock found him. 

“S-sire!” Rahab stumbled to his feet, feeling vaguely like he had been caught doing something wrong--even if he could not currently fathom what that was right now. He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, twisting it between the fingers of his good hand. “I--” And then his stomach growled again. Loudly.

The warlock lifted his eyebrows at the sound. Rahab cringed, but Kain merely turned. “Come.”

Well conditioned by now to follow orders, Rahab obediently followed his master out of the beautiful room. They headed downward, using spiral steps without railings. Eyeing the drop to the tiled floors below, Rahab crowded close to the wall, concentrating on staying on the warlock’s heels. After a dizzying series of twists and turns and doors, they finally came to something that appeared to be a kitchen--albeit a kitchen far grander than he could have ever imagined. 

He was used to soot and dust and dirt floors soaked with oil and far less savory things over the course of years. This … this place was pristine, with tables of golden wood, walls and floors tiled in gorgeous, glowing colors without so much as a speck of dirt to be found anywhere. As they entered, a long hearth -- like the one that held the glowing ball of light in Rahab’s room -- flickered and then lit by itself, filling the elongated niche with the merry crackle of flame. Cooking utensils of every sort brightened even as Rahab watched, as if the pots and skillets were being rapidly shined by unseen hands. And those tables… Rahab could scarcely believe them real, for on them was piled food: bread, pies, squashes, fruit, an entire slab of butter … a bounty beyond anything Rahab could have ever imagined. 

“Eat, and then we shall move on to more productive pastimes,” his master ordered, gesturing at the food. Then glancing down at Rahab, his eyes narrowed. “Take only what will fit on one plate.” Kain was not inclined to play nursemaid if the boy ate himself sick.

“I--” Rahab looked at the food in disbelief. He could truly choose whatever he liked? “Are you sure, Sire? What if--” he bit back the rest as his words were greeted with an impatient snarl. “Yes, Sire!” He scurried to the table, finding a trencher--as ornately carved and clean as the rest of the room. As Rahab reached for the bread, he found it cold, somehow chilled. The top of the table was icy too, even though the rest of the room was warm, and Rahab marveled at what must be the most difficult spellwork in the whole world. But the food was not frozen, and it seemed very good as he piled a thick wedge of cheese and another of butter and three sausages and two fine autumn apples beside the bread. There was no room for the other things, not even if he balanced them on top. He retreated reluctantly to the bench beside the warm fire, and there set to work on his bounty with a will.

The warlock, for his part, seemed uninterested by the food, but rather paced the length of the chamber. He paused as if to examine things midair, things that Rahab could not see. The boy jumped when the warlock spoke. “Remember your way here, boy, for the future. The bound spirits which maintain this abode will move your food here. The quarters beyond --” Kain gestured, “once housed human servants, and contain such supplies or facilities as you may find yourself requiring.”

“Yes Sir,” Rahab managed weakly, swallowing down his last bite of cold butter and sausage, while his bread, stuffed with cheese, warmed close to the fire. Spirit servants? He summoned up his courage. “I-- I may come back?” 

Kain slanted him a look. “When given permission, boy. I do not want you wandering this tower at will; falling from a height is far from the only danger here.”

Rahab shivered, and slipped the apples into his tunic. His belly felt so full, he could hardly finish the bread and cheese, and when he stood he felt as round and lumbering as a draught-beast. Still, he followed close behind the warlock when called to leave. At first, Rahab paid close attention to every turn and ramp, so that he could find his way easily back. But as three flights of stairs became five and then eight, he panted harder and harder, regretting even the weight of the apples stuffed in his tunic, knees trembling.

By the time Kain threw open another great door and stepped into a light-filled solarium, Rahab was nauseous from the exertion, sweating, stomach hurting, thin legs almost folding beneath him. Still, desperately, he staggered after the warlock -- and froze.

Books. There were books just, oh everywhere, stacked with upright backs on shelves that stretched into the shadowed part of the room, strewn and piled on couches and footstools that sat before great windows, so many, many, *many* books. Rahab clamped a hand over his mouth, the excitement and nausea conspiring to make him feel thoroughly unwell. 

“Oh dear,” came a gentle voice. “I think the boy may have overexerted himself.” The angel they had met the night before stepped into view, a book in one black-taloned hand. In the light of day, the creature seemed no less strange: deep blue skin contrasted with bright golden eyes, hands that seemed deformed and yet oddly fitting, and, of course, those wings ... Rahab hardly knew where to look first--at the angel, or at all the books that surrounded him.

Setting the book aside, Janos moved forward and pulled out a cushioned stool. “Here. I think it would be best for you to sit down.” After a quick glance up at Kain, the boy moved hesitantly forward, sitting gingerly on the stool. His face was still pale, though, and Janos’ knowledge of human medicine was very limited. He hoped there wasn’t anything truly wrong that a little time to rest wouldn’t handle. “Just breathe,” he told the boy kindly. “No one here will harm you. Deep, slow breaths--that’s it.” As color came back into those cheeks, Janos glanced at Kain. “I believe you wished to start with ‘On Meditations’ …?” he inquired, going to pick up the book in question.

“Correct,” Kain replied, but made no move to take the book, instead wandering over to inspect a nearby shelf. 

Rahab looked over at his master, wondering what the warlock had planned. His reading had improved, but if his Sire tasked him with reading *all* of these books, Rahab would be here until he was old and grey. Which, now that he thought about it, didn’t seem like such a bad thing. Food, and safety, and book-learning … all things that would have seemed like an impossible dream less than a week ago. Now, the warlock seemed determined to provide an endless bounty of all three. Which made Rahab wonder just when he would have to pay the price for such generosity--and how much it would cost him in the end.

“Very well, then,” Janos said, unperturbed. He brought a small table close and placed the book in front of Rahab, opening the heavy leather cover. Rahab surreptitiously rubbed his fingers against his tunic, trying to eradicate any last traces of his meal, before slowly reaching for the thick sheets of vellum, just like he’d watched Kain do. The paper felt silky and smooth between his fingers, like -- he tried to think of something that felt like this. A kitten? A crisp autumn leaf? With terrible care, he turned past the embossing and decorations to the first page of text. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Janos as he did so, waiting for any indication that he was overstepping his bounds. But the angel merely gave him an encouraging nod. “Show me how much you can read on your own, and we shall progress from there.” 

“I … yes, milord,” Rahab said. Protesting that he had barely learned any words at all might give them an excuse to take the book away, which was something that he wanted to avoid at all costs! Curling possessive fingers around the edge, he tugged it closer, and began to puzzle out the symbols on the page.

“How long have you been reading?” The angel asked kindly, drawing up his own stool. None of the chairs that Rahab could see had any backs.

Rahab tallied rapidly. “Four days, milord. Counting this one. This shape here… this one is the same sigil from Natural Philio -- Philosophy?” Something in the question must have been wrong, and Rahab allowed himself a grimace as the angel blinked and turned away from him to look to the warlock, who was now paging through a tome as big as thick as his whole spread hand. It must contain very much knowledge, Rahab thought, to be so large -- but Kain only snorted and returned the book to the shelf, then selected another.

The angel looked back to him. “You may call me Janos, child,” he said. “And yes, it is the name of a school of scholars, who among them produced both texts. Erysia.”

“Erysia,” Rahab echoed dutifully, adding the glyph to his growing list of memorized shapes. “Thank you, mil-- Janos, ser. Is… is Erysia like Ardenica?” The sounds were different, but the shapes were very like one another. 

Rahab didn’t think the angel’s eyebrows could go much higher, but then they did. “Not… exactly. That glyph is the first of a calming spell, to ease the minds of beasts or men -- and it isn’t something that is suitable for -- what exactly has Kain been teaching you?” 

Rahab shrunk lower on his stool, darted a glance at his warlock. But his Sire didn’t look back, was just paging through his new book with that faint curl at the corner of his mouth. But it must be alright to answer, mustn’t it? “To… to make the dogs lay down, ser, or to make a small light which follows me or stays in place. To make a magical thing seem… different, so I can pick it from a line of similar things. Uhm, or to make a sharp knife of ice, but that one is very difficult, Janos, ser. A-and to know some words in the part that tells what each of those is good for.” At least his stomach didn’t hurt so much, with all the thinking he had to do to put so many words together.

But they must not have been the right words, because the angel had the bridge of his nose pinched between his strange thumb and forefinger. Janos shook his head a little. “You -- in three days, you learned -- and he has not taught you any alphabets?”

Rahab felt just awful. And he didn’t want the angel to think that his Sire was bad at teaching, or had left parts out, either! “M-maybe he has, a-and I... have not properly learned the spell. What does it do, ser?” he asked, turning a page of the book before him, in the hopes he might somehow find it emblazoned on the next leaf. Nothing there looked like alphabets, though in truth, Rahab wasn’t sure how he would recognize it, even were it right before him. Now the angel would take the book away, and --

Rahab jumped a little as Janos touched his shoulder, but very lightly, patting. “Be at ease, Rahab. An alphabet is not a spell. It is merely a way of making reading easier, so you need not memorize the shape of every word.” 

Rahab looked back blankly, uncertain of even how to respond. The angel’s hand was gentle, for all its strangeness. At the shelf, his warlock was watching them, in that side-tilted way that made it seem like he wasn’t. “E-easier, Janos, ser?” he finally hazarded. 

“Allow me to show you. This book contains no spells, but rather essays -- stories -- about how to understand the powers that fuel more complex spells. It is all written in one alphabet, which corresponds to the language you are speaking. Each different shape is called a ‘letter’--” Janos traced a nail under one of the more complex glyphs “--which stands for a different sound. When those shapes are strung together, the sounds form a spoken word. For example, this one -- R-e-v-e-a-l-e-d.”

A book not of learning, but about learning? It seemed so strange! Rahab followed along, mapping each shape to each mouthed sound. “Rev- revealed?”

“Shown,” Janos supplied, “or suddenly seen. Wherever you see this shape, then the word has an ‘r’ sound.”

Rahab sucked in a breath. It was like the page rearranged itself before him, the known symbols--no, sounds--sitting up and calling for his attention, whispering for him to understand. But there were still too many blank places, silent letters. “A-and this one, ser?”

“It makes a ‘t’ sound, or ‘th’ when it is next to this one.”

Janos gave him a few more, each falling into place, whispering their sounds in Rahab’s mind, so that it seemed like a host of humming shadows circled around him. Rahab hesitantly passed his finger over the words, careful not to touch the fragile markings, concentrating fiercely. As he spoke them, sounding out their meaning, each word came easier, each one sang louder, more beautifully than the last. “Th--us, power is not revealed by s … strii--? Strik-ing hard or often, but by striking true. To ho-hold your opp...ponent-s fear in the p-palm of your hand and show it to him: this is the true-st strike of all.” The realization of what he had just been gifted came like a lightning bolt: words might hold magic, but sometimes the order of words held *ideas*. New thoughts such as he had never thought before, thoughts he hadn’t even heard anyone speak, but now he could take them and make them his own.

Rahab looked up at his angelic teacher, glowing with excitement. “More, ser? Please, I--I want to know all of them.” 

“Do not worry--you are already well on your way,” Janos assured him, smiling at his eagerness. “You are very talented indeed. There are only a few more symbols to learn, and then you can move on to the meanings behind words, and perhaps even words in other languages … and there will always be more of those to know.”

“Truly?” Rahab breathed. He turned, gazing at the treasure trove of books about them. “Once I know the languages, could--could I read *all* of these?”

Janos chuckled, pinfeathers fluffing a little in apparent good humor. “In time, yes. Though you may wish to start with easier texts than many of these.” Standing up, he paced over to a shelf, and took down another tome. “Here. Try this one. We shall sound out the words together--and by the end of it, I would not be surprised if you were not ready to choose your own books.”

It was so many different kinds of wonderful, Rahab didn’t even have numbers to count so high. The morning passed like that, the first book devoured with Janos just beside him to explain the words he did not know, and then the next, each one faster, until Rahab felt himself drunk on the sheer variety of new thoughts that were his now, caught up and trapped within him. Kain kept watch on them from the shelves, never very far away. After some time, the pale warlock took to pacing along the line of windows instead, hands clasped behind his back, looking out as if waiting for… something. Watching.

As the shafts of sunlight that glanced across the couches shrank ever shorter, Janos permitted Rahab to eat his apples, which was a kind of torment he had never known, for while he was sticky he was forbidden from touching the books. Rahab swallowed the fruit in great gulping bites, waited while Janos inspected his hands, and then Rahab got to choose his own book and read it alone, curled up on one of the soft couches near his warlock.

Whatever Kain was looking for, Rahab could not see it -- at least, nothing so interesting as the histories of the Polonius empire. All Rahab could glimpse was treetops, mountains and lakes and still more treetops... and the occasional raven that winged its way above the branches, swaying in the noontime sun.


End file.
